Take It Off
by Death'sDarkAngel
Summary: After a puzzling series of murders take place at an all-male review club, Sherlock cons John into going undercover…and the results of the case turn out to be a lot more revealing than he initially bargained for.
1. On the Scene

So the plot monkeys started planning this one after an offhanded comment from Captain Evil while we were watching _Magic Mike_—yeah, you see where this is going!

So this is my Valentine to you—what is better than some hot stripper Johnlock with a dash of Mystrade? Hope you enjoy! And Happy Valentine's Day, darlings!

* * *

_Well, this is certainly not the first place I'd thought of going today_, John thought to himself. He was standing off to the side, arms crossed over his chest as he watched Sherlock do what he does best.

They had been summoned by Lestrade to a club called Midnight Equilibrium, which catered to women and a handful of gay male clientele. When the club manager had come in early to balance his books, he discovered one of his dancers strung up from the stage lighting rig, murdered the tools of his trade…

"John…" Sherlock said as he leaned over the body.

That was the doctor's queue to put all those years of medical training to the test.

"What is this—oil? His body is covered in oil?" Lestrade asked as he peered over John's shoulder.

"It appears," Sherlock replied, deadpan. "But to what end I am unclear at the moment."

"It's a special lubricate used by exotic dancers," the doctor explained. "They oil up their bodies so that it glistens in the stage lights. Makes them look wet—it's supposed to be sexy."

When his statement was met with prolonged silence, John glanced up at his friends to find them both staring down at him like he had grown a second head.

"What?" he demanded, suddenly feeling self-conscious for sharing that knowledge.

"And why do you know this?" Greg questioned with raised eyebrows. "Frequent the gentlemen's club often, John?"

"What? No! I…ah, had…a mate at uni who…danced," John explained haltingly as he blushed profusely.

Sherlock eyed his flat mate curiously. He knew that John was lying, but he let it slide for the time being, as it wasn't relevant to the here and now of the case.

"So, male…dancer…twenty-three. Student at a local university. Working to support himself through his studies. The killer had to have been a man, considering the amount of strength it would have taken to hoist his dead body up to the lighting rig. Also, the person we are looking for happens right-handed, judging by the angle of the initial strangulation…about six foot three," the genius rattled off.

Lestrade leaned down to get a better look at the ligature marks on the victim's throat. "How do you like that? Strangled to death by underwear…poor sod."

John's gaze followed Greg's hand as it flitted over the bindings still tied around the stripper's neck. It was obvious that the killer had used whatever had been available for the strangulation, as the actual murder weapon was a g-string. The doctor found this oddly amusing in a sick sort of way. _Oh, God—I'm beginning to think like Sherlock! This is just the sort of kinky thing he enjoys…_

That thought startled him. He had thought of Sherlock in many ways before over the long course of their partnership, but _kinky_ was never one of them. _Wonder what he thinks of this…Nope! Don't even go there, John Watson! You will _not_ think about your best friend and flat mate in that way!_ His mind scolded.

The truth was John's thoughts had been slipping down this road more and more frequently as of late. It didn't help that Sherlock kept giving him these odd heated stares whenever the detective thought John wasn't paying attention. Not one to abide by conventional rules of personal space to begin with, they had always been closer—quite literally—than the doctor had been with anyone else besides a lover. But now, when one invaded the personal space of the other, it seemed much more intimate than before. The sexual tension between them lately was almost palpable to those around them and it was nearly enough to make even the chastest and devote nun blush.

And God help them! They were now on a case involving the murder of a male stripper. Sherlock was a little too amused when they discovered where the scene of the crime was.

The man in question had resumed his study of the body; no doubt learning all there was to be gleaned from the corpse by now. Sherlock made a little humming noise as he noticed something.

"What have you got?" Lestrade asked.

"This man has had penetrative intercourse within a short while of his death," the consulting detective stated. "There are the tell tale fluids on his backside…"

John tried very hard not to think about that as he looked anywhere but at his flat mate or the body. He felt a faint blush creep up his neck. _I'm a medical doctor for God's sake! What was my problem?! _

"Hmm…jilted lover?" surmised the DI, thankfully ignoring the doctor's reaction.

"Not sure," was Sherlock's answer. "It's a possibility, but I need more information."

The genius suddenly stalked across the club to the bar where the manager was currently perched on a barstool, waiting for the investigation to wrap up. The man immediately stood upon seeing Sherlock approach.

"Mike Channing, club manager," the hulking six-foot-one brunette introduced.

"Mr. Channing," the detective greeted. "You were the last one to see Mr…Kelly? last night?"

"Well, he was the last of the guys to leave, which was usually the case. Alex always hung around a bit afterwards helping me shut down the place—last night was no exception."

"Did you see him leave the club?" Sherlock pressed.

"No, I left before he did."

The genius raised his eyebrows in response to which Channing just shrugged.

"That was actually the norm," he explained. "Alex would help me close down the bar and a lot of times he'd stay late to work on a new routine or whatever. He liked to be secretive with his material—didn't want the other guys to see his new act until the first time he performed it for the audience."

"What about his coworkers? Were there any problems between Mr. Kelly and the other dancers?" the consulting detective queried.

"Everybody got along as far as I could see. They all worked well as team, helping each other out when need be. All my guys manage to pull a few hundred quid in tips most nights so there's no real rivalry amongst them," was the answer.

John had been hanging back listening to the interrogation up until this point. He jumped in and asked the next question in Sherlock's long line of inquiries. "Did Mr. Kelly—Alex—have a significant other that might not have approved of his line of work?"

The manager turned and regarded John with a little more than passing interest. The doctor couldn't help but blush at the clearly appreciative look he received. It did not escape his notice, however, that Sherlock narrowed his eyes and frowned ever so slightly at the interaction. John doubted anyone but him would have noticed.

With a charming smile, Channing replied, "Not that I was aware of. He never talked about anyone special. Though Alex was a favorite among both the ladies and the few men who frequent our establishment. He did have a reputation for going 'above and beyond the call of duty'—if you know what I mean…"

"I'm not sure I understand what you mean," Sherlock confessed, clearly annoyed.

Mike dragged his eyes away from John reluctantly to address the detective. "The other guys talked about how Alex took extra side gigs for certain clients—they would pay him for…additional services rendered."

"You mean they paid him for sex?" John clarified for his partner's benefit. He was unsure whether the genius would have picked up on the innuendo, seeing as how incredibly naïve he seemed to be on the topic.

The manager's eye swiveled back to meet the doctor's. He nodded. "That's what I heard. Not sure how true it was, but the other guys…they talk."

"Thank you Mr. Channing, you've been most informative. When will the rest of your staff be in today?" Sherlock abruptly asked in a waspish tone, effectively shutting down the conversation.

"They usually start strolling in around six. We don't open until eight, so they have time to prep and work out any kinks in a routine," Mike stated.

"Good. I'll be in later to question your staff," Sherlock declared. He latched onto his blogger's elbow and pulled him towards the exit with a "Come along, John."

The doctor didn't respond, but he was rather pissed at his flat mate's behavior. Not that Sherlock wasn't normally rude and had a complete disregard for social conventions, but this seemed different somehow.

Lestrade met them at the door. "I'm going to have the forensics team finish up here and then I'm going to turn the place back over to the manager. There's nothing else you need to see? I'm going to suggest that they open tonight as usual…perhaps we can scope out the 'usual crowd' and see if we can get any further leads."

"Excellent decision, Detective Inspector," the genius commented. "I was going to suggest just that. I have a feeling our murderer will make a reappearance. We shall be back at six to question the rest of the staff."

With a nod, Greg agreed. They took their leave, letting the officers do their job dealing with the aftermath.

John was glad to exit the club. He was grateful for the fresh air—or rather, as fresh as air is in London. He had never been claustrophobic, but the last few minutes inside had seemed stifling, like the walls were closing in on him. He couldn't quite pinpoint the cause of his distress, but John knew without a doubt it involved his partner and this particular crime scene put him ill at ease.

Sherlock hailed a cab in no time, as usual, and they were on their way back to Baker Street. He was in a talkative mood today apparently, for he started prattling on about the details he had gleaned from the scene. Normally John would have been fully invested in the deductions that the genius threw out, but right now he couldn't find it in him to care. He just tuned out the detective and watched the city speed by, lost in his own thoughts.

"John! John! Did you hear anything I've just said in the past five minutes?" Sherlock inquired, the annoyance clear in his voice. If there was one thing he hated more than anything, it was being ignored—especially if the person ignoring him was John.

"Hmm?" the doctor asked as he turned away from the window to finally look at his partner. The thunderous look he received did nothing to settle his nerves.

"Honestly! What is your problem today?"

"_My_ problem?! What's _my_ problem?!"

"Yes—you've been behaving rather strangely since we arrived at the crime scene."

"_I_ have? What about _you_? What was that back there, Sherlock?"

The consulting detective's brow creased as he frowned, studying John. "You were distracted the entire time we were there."

John shook his head. "Not what I meant. You were overly rude to the manager right there at the end—after he'd been nothing but nice to you. Did it ever occur to you that the victim might have been a friend? Can you at least pretend to be considerate when we question the staff later?"

"Given the circumstances I believe I was suitable cordial," was the response.

"What?" John exclaimed incredulously. "No, no you weren't. You were rather rude, in fact."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Only because he was distracted. The moment he became aware of your presence, his concentration level slipped."

"So this is somehow my fault, then?"

"No, John! I am merely stating a fact."

"What was that about then, Sherlock? You're going to have to tell me because I'm lost."

That piercing gaze roamed his face for several charged moments before it was gone when the detective turned to stare out his window.

John sighed and resumed watching the city pass by. It was clear the conversation was over; he wasn't going to get an answer to what was going on in his friend's head. _Perhaps its better this…not sure if I really want to know anyway…_

Sherlock gritted his teeth, not seeing anything on the other side of the window. _How could John be so willfully ignorant of the things around him? First, he was clearly hiding something about his knowledge of striptease—what? Etiquette? Wrong word—preparations? Closer. John was embarrassed by his knowledge…_

The genius wasn't completely unaware of the needs and desires of other men. John was a healthy adult male who had certain requirements. It was nothing to Sherlock if his partner saw fit to attend such dens of iniquity—that was his business, after all. _Perhaps it was that he had shared such intimate knowledge in front of his friends._ This was definitely something they had never discussed—although he could only speak on his own personal conversations with his blogger. God only knew what John and Lestrade got up to on those pub nights of theirs.

Alright, if Sherlock was being completely honest with himself—and he was trying to make a sincere effort with concern to John—he was _jealous_. Yes, the great Sherlock Holmes was jealous. The look Mike Channing had given the doctor was decidedly more than friendly. In fact, he'd go as far to say it bordered on full-blown lust. The consulting detective didn't want anyone else looking at his blogger like that—John was _his_. As usual, the doctor was blissfully ignorant as ever.

This was most distracting and it annoyed Sherlock more than it ever had in the past. This case was shaping up to be not only challenging, but interesting as well—and instead of concentrating on what information he had just learned from the _crime scene_, here he was thinking about his bloody _feelings_ and _John_. This simply wouldn't do.


	2. And the Day Only Keeps Getting Better!

As soon as they stepped back into their own little world of 221B, everything seemed to revert back to normal. John shrugged out of his coat and headed immediately for the kitchen.

"Tea, then?" the doctor asked genially as he bustled around preparing the kettle.

Sherlock grunted in response and flung himself down on the sofa with his hands pressed together under his chin in usual thinking pose. Some minutes later, he was vaguely aware of a cup being placed on the coffee table within reaching distance. He smiled inwardly to himself. John always took such good care of him. But now he needed to think about more important things…like how not to punch that handsome manager should he try and chat up his blogger later tonight…

John sat back in his chair and sipped his tea thoughtfully while he regarded his flat mate. Sherlock was lost somewhere in his mind palace and therefore was oblivious to the doctor's attention.

Despite what Sherlock might have thought, John was anything but stupid. In fact, he saw far more than he let on, especially when it came to other people's behavior. It had not escaped his notice that the manager had been checking him out, he was well aware of this. It was flattering in a way, knowing that others found him attractive. And despite what he had said in the cab, the doctor knew full well that the detective's behavior was the cause of jealousy. It had pissed Sherlock off that another man was checking him out. John had hoped, however, that his flat mate would just admit it already.

Whatever was going on between them had started long ago. The doctor realized awhile back that it was simply easier to give in to the attraction than to fight it. He hadn't been out on a date since that Adler woman had pointed it out to him. And yes it had been awhile—_God! Had it been awhile!_ But he was a patient man and knew that if he wanted Sherlock, he would just have to wait for his genius to over think this from every possible angle before he accepted it.

The killer was that everyone around them saw it, but the man who saw everything was blind to it. Greg had commented on it several times, saying that the sexual tension between then was tangible and it had started to make the other yarders feel edgy. Although, Lestrade no longer seemed affected, so his love life must be panning out alright.

At that thought, John grinned into his tea. Hell, if he wasn't getting shagged, at least his friend was. The fact that this tidbit of information had also eluded Sherlock made it all the more amusing since it was right under his nose, in more ways than one. The doctor enjoyed having this one up on his mate. John was quite looking forward to when the genius discovered _that_!

He was not looking forward to going back to the club, however. Places like that made his skin crawl and brought back too many bad memories. But John would do what he always did and soldier on. God only knows what Sherlock would get up to if left to his own devices on a case like this.

* * *

The rest of the afternoon was spent much like every other one on the first day of case, complete with a visit to the morgue. Molly had analyzed the corpse and managed to lift several prints off the body. The downside was that the victim was a stripper and it turned out that he had been manhandled by a fair number of ladies the previous night. There was one set of masculine prints that fit the partial profile Sherlock had managed to work out thus far—but they did not match anything in the police database. So they were at a dead end right now and unable to track the lover turned killer that way. The DNA tests from the semen also turned up inconclusive.

That uneasy feeling started creeping back in when they returned to Midnight Equilibrium. John was distinctly uncomfortable speaking to the other dancers, none of whom thought anything of being interviewed in various states of undress.

Lestrade was completely unfazed—_probably because he had a naked man waiting for him at home in his bed, the tosser._ Sherlock, for his part, was initially exasperated by the nudity on display and took no notice of it beyond commenting that it was rather off-putting.

"So tell us about the regulars that favored Alex," John prompted, making sure his gaze stayed permanently fixed _above_ the man's shoulders.

"Sure," Blond Guy said, flashing them a brilliant smile. He shifted on the sofa, half reclining, and crossed one leg over the other. He was wearing a tight blue Speedo that left very little to the imagination.

"Alex was a favorite. He was a good looking guy. Not my type, but the ladies loved him. We have a handful of male clients that stop by on occasion. One's a regular and I get the impression he comes here specifically to see Alex. They seemed to be on pretty…intimate…terms."

"Did you ever see them together?" demanded Sherlock.

Blond Guy quirked an eyebrow at the detective. "Understatement. Near the middle to end of our personal acts, we usually go out into the crowd and dance up on a few of the ladies—you know, drum up excitement, let 'em cop a feel. Most of the guys stay away from the men, except those of us who swing that way," he paused and licked his lips as he stared at Sherlock, making his interest clear.

John unconsciously clenched his hands into fists on his lap. He had to make a conscious effort to relax, or they might not get what they needed out of this guy. But he couldn't help himself from loudly clearing his throat and giving the stripper a pointed glare before he brought the conversation back on track. "So he wasn't averse to offering up himself to your male clients?"

He was awarded a knowing smirk from the dancer for his clear show of jealousy. "Yeah, that one guy in particular showed up pretty regularly. Like I said, we'd go into the audience…well, if this guy was there, Alex always without fail went to him. The man was a bit more handsy than we normally allow, but Alex never complained so we all just assumed that there was something going on there—especially because of the frequency, which was about three times a week."

"Could you describe him to me?" inquired the consulting detective. He leaned forward a little, excited at finally getting information that was proving to be useful.

_Damn Blond Guy for his cute dimpled smile!_ John was going to wipe that look off his face if he kept eyeing Sherlock like a piece of meat.

"He's a bit over six feet—I'd venture to say six-two or six-three maybe. Seems pretty fit, I'd guess military type based on the hair and just the way he presents himself."

Sherlock nodded, so far that information seemed to fit the clues he already had. "Would you be able to show him to me?"

A predatory grin stretched across the dancer's face as he responded, "Honey, I'll show you whatever you want…"

Lestrade, who had remained silent through the entire interrogation barely managed to stifle his snicker by faking a cough.

John snarled and barked, "_THAT_ is completely unnecessary! Just point this guy out to us so we can get on with our night and you can get back to whatever it is you do!"

Three pairs of wide eyes locked on to him in surprise. Immediately the doctor realized his mistake. _Oh, bugger! What the _hell_ am I doing?!_ Aloud, he said, "I am _so_ sorry! I apologize. It's been a long day, forgive me."

The dancer offered him a genuine smile. "No worries, mate. I think we're all a bit stressed tonight."

John gave a curt nod and excused himself. He wandered over to the curtain separating the dressing room from the stage. He needed to get some air after making a complete fool of himself like that. Without another word, he slipped through the lame drapes and headed for the bar.

There must have been something in the way the doctor looked that said he needed alcohol, because as he approached, the bartender pulled out a shot glass and filled it with dark amber colored liquor and slid it to him without a word. John tipped his head in thanks and slammed the drink back without further consideration. The whiskey burned as it went down his throat, but its warmth quickly spread through his system and dulled the rougher edges, making everything a little easier to deal with.

He stood there for several long minutes contemplating the cheap cut of the bar glass before a familiar presence was at his side.

"Buy you a drink?" asked that deep baritone as the consulting detective's shoulder bumped into his own.

Despite himself, John smiled. "Oh, so now you're being funny!"

As he looked up at Sherlock, the corner of the genius's lips quirked up in that patent half-smirk he reserved only for John. "I got you to smile, didn't I?"

"Yes. Yes, you did."

"So…what was that back there?" the consulting detective echoed his own words from earlier in the day back to him. "Now who's being rude?"

John hung his head and groaned. "I know. That was inexcusable and so unlike me."

"You've been on edge since we first arrived on site this morning. Care to tell me what this is all about?"

"You mean you haven't already deduced it yet?"

"I'd rather not."

John snorted. "That's a first for you."

There was an answering sigh, then, "John, you are my best friend. And while you are correct that reading people is second nature to me—and rarely am I wrong—I find that when it comes to you, I am continually surprised. Besides, it annoys you when I deduce you."

Shaking his head, the doctor chuckled as he stared down at the wood grain of the bar. _Were they really having this conversation? In a strip club of all places?_

"I'm trying, John."

"I know, Sherlock."

He finally looked up to meet his flat mate's gaze. And just like that, everything was suddenly alright again.

"Now how about that drink?" the detective pressed.

"Oh—you were serious? I thought we were on a case," John replied mildly.

"I thought you could use one," Sherlock answered. "Besides, we'll need to blend in. It will be easier if we have drinks in front of us so that we appear to be paying customers."

John considered this for a moment and then nodded. Sure, he could see the logic in that. "A Guinness, then."

Sherlock made a face at his choice, but placed their order to the bartender nonetheless. They carried their drinks to a table in back where they had a clear view of the entire floor. The consulting detective filled his blogger in on some of the new details he was able to discover in the last several interviews. John learned that Blond Guy (a.k.a. Eric) was going to come out before his personal act and do some rounds (a.k.a. chat up the ladies) and point out their suspect, if the man was in attendance.

"Do you really think he'd show up tonight after just killing his lover last night?" John questioned skeptically.

With a shrug, Sherlock replied, "It's worth a shot. He may or may not, depending on his personality type. Several of the other dancers confirmed the presence of this mystery man interacting with our victim. If nothing else, we can find out who the other regulars are and perhaps question them as well."

"Right. Just tell me what you need me to do," the doctor said.

"Keep an eye out for anyone suspicious. And try to look like you're here to relax, you still look tense. I need you to look like you're enjoying yourself," the genius stated.

_Ha! Not bloody likely!_ "Is Lestrade joining us?"

"No. He's staying backstage and coving that vantage point in case we miss something out here."

"Ah. Okay."

They sat in companionable silence for some time as the crowd slowly started to filter in. Sherlock took a sip of his scotch and hummed in approval. John's Guinness was warm by this point, but he still took a few mouthfuls every now and then despite the temperature simply to keep up the appearance.

"You know," his flat mate said out of the blue, "I still want to know what's bothering you about this case. I'm not going to press you and I won't deduce you, but…"

John spared Sherlock a sidelong glance before replying, "I will tell you eventually, just—when I'm ready, yeah?"

The consulting detective nodded. John was being more than patient with him, so was going to make a valiant effort in return, even if it killed him.


	3. Death by G-String

**So, I just want to take a second to thank you all for reading!**

**I'd also like to address the anonymous review questioning my choice of using John for the undercover stripper: while yes, I normally concur that Dr. Watson is more the adorable boy next door type, he is also a trained military man who has earned his stripes. Besides that, I personally don't think that there is anything sexier than a nicely filled out uniform *ahem*... So cuddly, fuzzy jumpers aside, John is also a man of action and obvious muscle (have you seen how built military men are?-Just sayin'...).**

**Sherlock is indeed dark and mysteriously sexy in his own way, but it would be highly out of character for him to become a stripper. And-if I were given the opportunity to have a one night stand with either of them, I most definitely would choose Captain John H. Watson, MD. Those wishing to argue their points, feel free to message me! I love a good debate!**

**Now-enough of that! Hope you enjoy this next chapter!**

* * *

The longer they sat there, the more John contemplated shooting himself just so that he could be put out of his misery. This was not his idea of fun. It felt like each time he glanced down at his watch, it was only a few minutes later than the last time he checked. Even Afghanistan seemed like a better option over this slow, painful torture.

The tall, dark, and handsome manager Mike Channing made his rounds and eventually found his way to their little hideout. He grinned widely and shoved his hands down into the back pockets of his impossibly tight jeans.

"Enjoying the entertainment, gents?" he asked affably.

"I am finding this whole thing quite entertaining," Sherlock answered honestly. "Though I do believe that John is not enjoying himself as much."

The doctor shrugged and took a sip of his warm beer.

"You look a little tense, Dr. Watson," Channing observed. "Is there something that we could do to make your night more pleasurable?"

John gazed up at the manager who was regarding him with unveiled interest. Mike was truly a good-looking man, with inky black wavy hair and chiseled features. His cheekbones weren't sharp enough, nor his skin pale enough—and his eyes were definitely too green, but John could pretend…couldn't he? Channing was offering, after all—just to take the edge off? God, did he need it right now… _No_. He would wait for Sherlock. His genius was a man worth waiting for.

He smiled for the man and shook his head, responding, "No, thank you, though. This isn't my scene really."

"Oh," Mike said with surprise in his voice. "You're not offended are you?"

"No, not at all. I just don't feel very comfortable in places like this," the doctor replied vaguely.

"Now, Mr. Channing," Sherlock stepped in, redirecting the heat from his blogger. John was stressed enough for whatever reason; he didn't need this gorilla of a man making the situation worse. "Are any of your regulars here presently?"

Mike blinked a few times as if to clear his head. "Oh, yeah." He slid into the emtpy seat on Sherlock's other side and proceeded to oh so casually, so as not to draw attention to what he was doing, point out which tables where the regulars. Within ten minutes, the consulting detective had a proverbial 'who's who' list and watched them like a hawk for the rest of their time there.

There were several regulars there who all fit his working description of the murder, so he wasn't able to pin it down one suspect just yet. As they had planned earlier, John slipped away under the guise of using the gentleman's room so he could rendezvous with Lestrade and fill him in on their newly acquired information. When he returned to the table, Blond Guy—_or Eric_, John reminded himself—was leaning in close to Sherlock, smiling and laughing—_flitting_!

John tried to squash down that dark seeded sprout of jealousy as deep as he could. It would do no good to let that show now, not when they didn't need to draw any unwanted attention themselves.

"Evening, Dr. Watson," Eric greeted with a nod as the doctor reclaimed his seat. Sherlock's suppressed a smirk when John's chair slid fractionally closer to his. _Ah, John_…

Eric leaned in a little more and whispered conspiratorially to the partners, "So I was chatting up the ladies and learned a few things about our mystery man. Name's Bryan Harper. The girls said that he was pretty sweet on Alex."

"Does anyone outside the staff know that Mr. Kelly is dead?" the detective asked.

Shaking his head, the dancer replied, "No. Mike and the DI decided that it was best to play it off like Alex was sick—just in case. They thought it would give you guys a better shot at the regular crowd if they didn't know just yet."

Sherlock nodded in approval and asked if Harper was there at the moment. Eric quickly glanced around and answered, "No. He's not here yet. That's his usual table—over there." He motioned to a group of seats four places to the right off the runway on the main floor.

Just as he turned to leave, Eric stopped and leaned back in as he indiscreetly pointed to the front door of the club. "That's him right there. Now if you'll excuse me, I have an act coming up. Hope you enjoy the show." He winked at the detective and sauntered off.

"John—text Lestrade and inform him of our man," Sherlock demanded.

With a sigh, the doctor pulled out his mobile and sent off the necessary information to Greg.

The next forty-five minutes passed uneventfully. Well, as uneventful as forty-five minutes in a strip club could be. Sherlock was able to discern where in the line-up Alex's routine should have been because right at minute forty-seven, their suspect started glancing around, presumably looking for the victim.

"Look at that," Sherlock whispered. "He's looking for Mr. Kelly…"

"And it looks like he's a little agitated that he's not here," John commented. "Sherlock—if he were the murder, he'd already know that Alex isn't here."

"Perhaps you are right. Let's keep an eye on him and see what he does."

They didn't have to wait too long—it seemed that Bryan Harper's anxiety reached its breaking point. Only moments later, he launched himself out of his chair and stalked over to the curtained off hallway they knew led back to the backstage dressing room. Without direction this time, John fired off a quick message to the DI.

_Headed your way_. ~JW

**Roger. Saw him get up.** ~GL

Several minutes passed and then they watched Harper storm back out into the main club and out the front door.

"Come on, John!" Sherlock commanded as he stood and casually strolled towards the exit. His blogger followed closely behind. When they burst out into the cold night air, their suspect was nowhere to be found.

John threw his hands up in exasperation. "He just left! Seriously?!"

"There could have easily been a car waiting for him," the consulting detective reasoned.

The doctor was going to reply when his mobile started chiming. He fished it out of his pocket and saw that it was Lestrade.

"Anything?" the DI asked.

John shook his head before he remembered that Greg couldn't see him. "No—we came out right behind him, but he's nowhere in sight. We're checking the side alley now but nothing so far."

Sherlock stopped abruptly in the mouth of the alley, causing the doctor to run into him. "John…" was all his flat mate said, angling to the side so that his blogger could get the same view he was privileged to.

"Oh shit…" John breathed as he saw.

"What? Tell me what's going on!" demanded Lestrade on the other end of the line.

"Um, Greg? You need to get out here, mate…we just found Bryan Harper behind the building…"

And find him they did. There was a vacant lot several meters beyond the rear wall of the club, which was sectioned off by a six-foot tall chain link fence. Bryan Harper was slumped down against the concrete ground, arms and wrists tied to the fence with g-strings-with one conveniently wrapped around his neck.

"Jesus!" exclaimed Greg as he rounded the corner. "The bloke only left not even ten minutes ago!"

The DI called in the second murder and soon the back ally was crawling with police.

"I hope you didn't contaminate the crime scene," sneered Anderson as he stalked over to the victim.

Sherlock sniffed at the forensics specialist in response. "No—unlike you I know how to do my job."

"Clearly not, considering this man is dead and you were the one who was here to catch a killer—not allow another murder to take place right under your nose," the other man retorted.

Before the consulting detective was able to make a snide comeback, the DI stepped in. "Anderson—that's enough."

Foiled, he mumbled something unintelligible under his breath as he set about his work.

Greg let out a long-suffered sign and pushed the fingers of his left hand through his spiky grey hair. "This one's a fast bugger…Christ. More bloody paperwork tonight…"

John gave him a sympathetic look and patted him on the shoulder in commiseration.

"Phone records—" Sherlock declared suddenly out of no where.

Lestrade turned to regard the genius. "Oh—right. They came in shortly before I met you here. It's back at the office—didn't want to chance it sitting around here where the wrong person might have seen it. You can come by and get them tonight if you want—looks like I'm pulling another all-nighter."

Sherlock's face momentarily registered an expression of insult at the suggestion he wasn't capable of ensuring simple phone records were kept safe, but luckily for everyone present he kept his mouth shut.

"Detective Inspector…" Anderson called out as he tilted the victim's head back and pulled something out of his mouth.

Greg watched with a mixture of revulsion and horror as his forensics specialist pulled a thong out of the corpse's throat.

"Well, that explains why we didn't hear him scream," the genius stated.

John couldn't help but agree. "Effective gag as anything else I suppose…"

* * *

It was an hour later before they followed Greg back to Scotland Yard to retrieve Alex Kelly's phone records. There had been a number of calls and texts made back and forth between him and their newest victim, Bryan Harper. Besides that, there was also another number which had a great deal of received calls from. That, as it turned out, was from a burner phone so they had no luck tracing it back to an owner.

John slouched down on the couch in the DI's office as he watched Sherlock pace frantically in the confined space. Greg was behind his desk, hunched over a growing stack of papers. Every once and awhile, he would glance up and shoot the genius a murderous look. The constant pacing was starting to fray his already shot nerves.

Just when he finally was about to tell Sherlock off, his office phone rang.

This was really the last thing he wanted—it was already well past midnight and he had enough crap to deal with as it was…

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," Greg answered warily. Upon hearing the voice on the other end, he perked up considerably. "Oh, hey! Yeah… Bad night... I'm sorry, I know you had wanted to watch that movie… I promise I'll make it up to you…"

Sherlock finally ceased his manic pacing in favor of observing the DI. He had known Greg had recently started seeing someone, but he was unable to deduce whom, since he didn't have enough clues. The consulting detective cocked his head to the side in an attempt to hear better, but the voice on the other end was too low for him to make out.

Greg looked up and realized that he was now the focal point of the genius's interest. "Look, I have to let you go—Sherlock's here and I'm sure he's about ten seconds away from total self destruction if I don't get back on this case…"

There was a pause as he listened to his companion. Then he laughed at whatever the person on the other end had said in response. "I've leave _that_ to you!... Alright, love. Good night."

"New lover?" Sherlock questioned and then went on without waiting for a reply. "You seem serious about this one-calling him by such an endearment so soon into your courtship—an old friend turned into something more, perhaps? You aren't the type to just jump head first into a serious relationship, so that means you must have known this person for quite some time and have been exceptionally close to them before now."

John hid his smirk behind his hand. _Oh this was just too fun. Sherlock still had no idea_…

Greg offered an enigmatic smile and answered, "You could say that."

Once again the genius went to open his mouth to rattle off another round of deductions, but before he could leap into another tangent, John yawned noisily and asked, "Do we need to be here, or can we go home? You can wear out the carpet there just as easily. If you don't mind, I'd like to see my bed before three AM."

Sherlock turned to John with a look of surprise on his face, like he had forgotten his blogger was even there. "Of course, John. Let's go home."

The doctor stretched and then strolled out of the DI's office, not bothering to check and see if his flat mate had followed. It had been an extremely long day and all he wanted was his nice soft bed. That, and to put this whole bloody mess behind him. He prayed that Sherlock would be able to solve this one quickly—and with the least amount of trips back to that club, the better. It brought back memories of darker days he wished nothing but to forget.

* * *

It wasn't until eleven o'clock the next morning that they finally got the call from St. Bart's telling them that the official autopsy was done. Their favorite mortician had even rushed some of the tests, which would hopefully give them more pieces of the puzzle. John was grateful—even if he knew Molly only did it for Sherlock.

"The DNA is a conclusive match to the semen found on Alex Kelly," Molly informed them as she flipped through her paperwork.

"No, no, no! _Damn it_!" Sherlock screamed as he flung what his blogger hoped was not a scalpel across the room.

John crossed his arms and frowned down at the corpse. "So…lover yes, but not the killer."

Sherlock heaved a great sigh and replied, "So it would seem."

"And we're back to square one again."

"There's something I'm missing…"

"A PhD student moonlighting as a stripper with a male lover no one in his real life knew about. Both turn up dead within twenty-four hours of each other. Someone found out, obviously. Otherwise, why specifically target this couple? Seems like a vendetta," John declared. "Perhaps we shouldn't rule out jaded lover. An ex maybe? I mean, Alex was a pretty private person. None of his classmates were close with him and his mother hasn't spoken with him in months—it's possible that he was seeing someone and it went completely unnoticed."

"I had thought of that as well," Sherlock mused

John leaned over the body of Bryan Harper and examined his neck more closely than he had before. He blindly reached for a pair of gloves and pulled them on.

"Sherlock…look…" the doctor ordered as he tilted the victim's chin to the side to get a better view of the neck. "He was strangled after he was dead. These bruises were made post mortem."

His flat mate was suddenly at his side, head only inches away as they both bend over to inspect the ligature marks.

"How did I miss this?!" the genius growled in frustration. He was furious with himself for missing this crucial detail. This wasn't like him at all.

"Hmm. But asphyxiation was still the cause of death," John stated. "It looks like the gag was more than just that—it's what also killed him, he was suffocated with it. Or several of them bunched together…"

Molly fidgeted nervously on the other side of the table as she flipped back through her notes. "That's not all…"

Sherlock glanced up at her and impatiently motioned for her to continue.

"Well, I also analyzed the, um, the…pants," she blushed at having to acknowledge the murder weapon. "And, um, they—it—was soaked in chloroform. Technically, fatal cardiac arrhythmia was the ultimate cause of death—but it did stem from the use of the chemical. It doesn't happen all the time, but...well, you know…that's why chloroform is no longer used for medicinal purposes."

John nodded absently. Yes, he recalled that from his medical school days. It made sense, sadly. He remembered a classmate who had used it for recreational purposes…it didn't end well.

"It could cause cardiac arrhythmia in less than five minutes?" Sherlock questioned with a dubious expression on his face. "I must admit that I have not studied the properties of chloroform, so I yield to your medical expertise on this."

With a shrug of his shoulders, the doctor answered, "It's not unheard of. Just like anything, if you have a bad enough reaction to it. And believe me, Sherlock; we are all grateful that you haven't studied it."

The genius stood stiffly and stared down at his shorter friend. "I'm offended, John. Do you honestly believe that I would attempt to use it on you?"

"For the sake of science, yes," John stated bluntly and folded his arms across his chest in a way that very much reminded Sherlock of the disapproving military officer his flat mate had once been.

Sherlock recoiled internally from that proverbial slap. It hurt that John thought he would use such a clearly dangerous substance on him. Alright, yes, there had been times in the past where Sherlock had needed to test something out on another living being—and John was the prime candidate. But in his defense, none of that was ever anything that could have proved to be fatal. So his blogger had ended up with a nasty rash after that one time—but it certainly wasn't fatal. How was he to know that John was highly allergic to iodine? _All besides the point…_

"Anyway—this is all off track. We have a murderer to catch," the consulting detective huffed. He whirled around, his Belstaf billowing behind him as he stalked with purpose towards the mortuary doors.

John sighed then jogged after his flat mate. "Thanks, Molly! We appreciate it!" he called over his shoulder.

"Oh, yeah…no problem. Any time!" she answered, but the doors had already swung shut, so she doubted he even heard her.


	4. Sounding Board

**Hello my darlings! I apologize for this chapter being shorter than the others-it's been a crazy week, but I wanted to give you _something. _Unfortunately the plot monkeys have also been a bit uncooperative as of late_. _I promise a longer chapter in a few days. Hope you enjoy :)**

* * *

He burst through the doors of St. Bart's just in time to see Sherlock hailing a cab several meters away.

"Hey!" John yelled after his flat mate as he jogged to catch up. The genius opened the cab door and stood there waiting for him.

"For once could you just bloody well wait for me? Is that really too much to ask?" snapped the doctor.

He was awarded that look that said _how-do-you-live-with-your-stupidity?_. "But I did wait for you, John."

This was a pointless argument, so John dropped it. Turning back to the case, he asked, "So what now?"

Sherlock drummed his fingers restlessly on the door handle as he thought. "Lestrade texted me earlier. He's been by to question Harper's colleagues. Harper wasn't as secretive as Kelly—his coworkers were aware that Bryan was gay and was in fact seeing someone."

"Where's Greg on bank statements?" questioned John. "I'm sure they could tell us something."

The pleased smile he received let him know that he had inquired along the same lines as the consulting detective's thoughts. "Well, you're in rare form today, John! As suspected, all of Alex Kelly's funds were tied up in his schooling and general living expenses. Lestrade did, however, discover that there had been a trust fund set up about two years back in Alex's name. The donor was anonymous, but the fund was closed out four days ago."

"That's a bit suspicious—the day before he turns up dead?"

"Precisely, John. But that's not all; Bryan Harper's financials showed that he had just put a sizeable deposit down on a flat in Battersea near Chelsea Bridge that would cost well over six thousand pounds a month," Sherlock told him.

"But Harper wasn't doing too bad for himself, was he? Where did you say he worked? He was an financial analyst, right?" John questioned with a frown.

The detective replied, "Junior analyst. His career was just starting; he hadn't made it yet to the point where he could afford a place like that. Besides—guess who cosigned the leasing agreement?"

"Alex Kelly. But he didn't have that kind of money, you just said."

"Yes—so where did it come from?"

"Our anonymous trust fund donor."

"Yes, John! Your skills at deductive reasoning are getting sharper everyday! But the money was not given willingly," Sherlock surmised. "Someone clearly didn't approve of the relationship or the use of their money…"

"Maybe both?" the doctor guessed.

"It does look that way. The two dead bodies of male lovers suggest this is a personal vendetta, as you have suggested before."

"But now what?"

Sherlock's expression was contemplative as he reviewed the data in his head. "I believe a trip to Harper's place of employment is necessary. Perhaps his colleagues can shed some light on this case."

There was a chime from the consulting detective's mobile in Lestrade's distinctive ringer ID.

"Sherlock?" Greg questioned without waiting for a greeting the second the line connected.

"Yes, Lestrade."

"Have you been down to the morgue this morning?" asked the DI.

"As a matter of fact yes, we were just leaving when you texted me. Have you seen the report yet?"

"No. Molly faxed it over, but I've been out of the office. Anything of interest?"

"She said the actual cause of death was fatal cardiac arrhythmia induced by the inhalation of chloroform. The pants were soaked in it," Sherlock informed him, "which explains the rapid demise. John said that the bruising around the neck was caused post mortem."

There was a sigh on the other end. "Christ. Well, that doesn't help us with anything really."

"No, it doesn't."

"Anyway—I called to tell you that I just got done interviewing Harper's coworkers. Turns out they knew he was seeing Alex Kelly—there's even a framed picture of them together on his desk. But the interesting thing is that one of his coworkers recalled that the day before Kelly's murder, Harper got a phone call that ended in a rather heated argument," Lestrade reported.

"That was the same day the trust fund was closed out," the genius answered.

"Yes—and according to our working timeframe, the coworker said the call ended roughly half an hour before the account was closed out. I'm still waiting on the confirmation, but I'm willing to bet that the call came from that burner number," concluded the DI.

"What about a phone recording? Most larger financial companies record all their phone calls in the event there's a dispute over a transaction later."

"Yeah—I had originally thought about that. Their phone system has been on the outs for the past two weeks, so it records sporadically," Greg responded in a huff.

"So let me guess, this call was one that wasn't recorded?"

"Yep."

"How convenient," Sherlock stated dryly.

"You read my mind," Lestrade commented. "So I checked in with the bank to see if perhaps they had caught something on film when the trust fund was closed out. That was another dead end—"

"Oh, let's see—it was requested from a third party agency with the remaining funds transferred back into an offshore account in the Cayman Islands?"

"You'll never convince me you're not a mind reader," Greg said with a humorless laugh.

"Hardly, Lestrade. I'm simply making logical conclusions based on how other facts in this case have turned out," Sherlock replied and rolled his eyes.

"I'm having my team try and trace the source from the banking end, but if it does yield anything, it could be days from now before we have results."

"Don't bother. You won't be able to find anything that way unless you enlist the help of my brother."

"I'm not going to ask for his help on a simple murder investigation, Sherlock."

"Well, Detective Inspector, if it was a 'simple murder investigation' as you just said, it would already be solved, now wouldn't it?" the genius retorted.

He couldn't hear Greg's response, but John had heard enough of the one-sided conversation on his end to know that his flat mate was pushing buttons that were best left alone. "Sherlock…" he warned.

The consulting detective gave his partner a sidelong glance. "My apologies, Lestrade. That might have been uncalled for."

"John just yelled at you, didn't he?"

"Might be."

Greg laughed at that. "He's good for you, you know. You're good for each other. Let him in, Sherlock. Everyone can see that you're both crazy about each other."

The genius stiffened at the remark. "I'm not going to discuss this with you. It's none of your concern."

"See—that's where you're wrong," Lestrade insisted. "John's my mate and I want him to be happy."

"As I have said, you needn't concern yourself," Sherlock maintained. "We both want the same thing."

"Good. Just remember that."

"I never forget it."

Before the conversation could continue down that dangerous path, the genius hung up. He didn't need the DI's concern—or his brother's either, for that matter. It was grating on his nerves that everyone felt they had the right to advise him on how he should handle his relationship with John. If and when-and it was a big _if_-he ever decided to advise his blogger on his feelings, then he would do it on his own timeframe and in his own way—without interference.

"Now what was all that about?" John questioned with a quirked eyebrow.

"Lestrade just interviewed Harper's coworkers, but there were no viable leads," Sherlock updated him, ignoring the actual question that was asked.

Those deep blue eyes lingered on him, knowing that he had been avoided. Luckily the doctor didn't press the issue and allowed the detective his secrets. "So are we still going over there? Did you want to check it out for yourself?"

"Hmm, no. I think there is no need right now," his flat mate answered.

"Right. So where are we going now, then?" John asked.

"Home. I need to think."


	5. 3rd Time's a Charm

This case seemed to be dragging on, much to John's displeasure. How sick was it that he wished for anything but this—a triple homicide in a locked room, cultist ritual suicides—hell, even dealing with Irene Adler would be preferable. He was frustrated beyond belief.

Sherlock wasn't following his usual course of action. Normally, he would have gone in guns blazing and reenacted the Spanish Inquisition with every regular patron of Midnight Equilibrium by this point. Instead, they were playing at this horrible subterfuge. John understood the reasoning behind it—he really did, but this was getting on his last nerve.

Three nights after the last murder found them stumbling into the club well past the normal time they showed up. The only available seating was near the stage. John's dark mood was only made worse when he realized where they headed.

"How is this supposed to help?" John hissed as he followed the lanky detective to the front of the floor. "Sherlock—we're supposed to be inconspicuous! How is sitting in the _middle_ of the floor accomplishing that?!"

Sherlock strode confidently to that one remaining empty table. He sat down with a flourish and looked at John expectedly. The doctor glared for several seconds before throwing himself into the chair next to his flat mate. The genius resolutely ignored John until the cocktail waiter came to get their drink order.

Before giving an answer, he leaned forward placing his elbows on the table and clasping his hands in front of him. "Well, how else am I supposed to observe, John, if we are not here?" Sherlock questioned. "Albeit this is not the ideal location, but at this point it cannot be helped. We wouldn't have been late if you hadn't stayed an extra forty-five minutes at the clinic."

"Well I'm sorry," John said in an exasperated tone, "the next time I have a child go into diabetic shock right before the end of my shift, I'll just tell their mum to have a seat and wait for the next doctor!"

"I find that acceptable," the genius stated. "This is just locum work for you, after all."

John stared at him in disbelief. He knew that his flat mate wasn't a true sociopath, but moments like this left him floundering and questioning his conviction on that. "Are you serious?! Sherlock, I'm a _doctor_! I can't just say that to a person in need of medical attention!"

"Oh that's right—I forgot about that Hippocratic Oath the lot of you take. Tedious," the detective responded with an unveiled condescendence clear in his voice.

Crossing his arms firmly over his chest, the doctor let out a humorless laugh. "Yes—of course you wouldn't understand. After all, it has nothing to do with you so what does it matter, hmm?"

A terrible strained silence fell between them. By that point their drinks had arrived and the show had started, so they were thankfully relieved of the arduous task of conversing with one another. Sherlock kept sneaking sideways glances at his partner. John looked like an angry bulldog at the moment. It was then that the genius realized that perhaps he had said the wrong thing.

He hadn't meant to offend his blogger—he was merely trying to point out that they were late because of John's obligations. And despite how he might have come across, Sherlock had a lot of respect for doctors. Lord knows that the consulting detective himself was still alive because of the skilled knowledge his best friend possessed. Sherlock respected that; to him, John was a true hero—not because he was a decorated veteran, but because he saved the lives of little girls in diabetic shock even though his shift was over.

Sherlock turned to John and was about to tell him this when he felt the presence of another body standing over him. He was about to tell the third person to bugger off when said body reached down and took his hand, tugging him up and out of his seat.

It took him longer than it should have to register that while he had been lost contemplating the many facets of John, the show did indeed go on. And now he was being led by the hand to the stage by a virtually nude Eric, who pushed him down onto 'the hot seat' in the center of the dais.

He tried not to let his frustration or embarrassment register on his face as the exotic dancer gave him a saucy wink before performing a very pubic lap dance for him. He was trying to be inconspicuous for crying out loud! The last thing he needed was to make a spectacle of himself. Eric was fully aware of why the consulting detective was there, which made the whole situation even more annoying.

Sherlock sighed and dared a glimpse at his blogger. Oh no—this was definitely _not good_. Things were already tense between them, but John looked positively murderous in that instance. The detective felt a momentary twinge of pity for Eric. It was quite possible that the blond dancer could end up being the next victim—though his untimely death would be at the hands of a certain army doctor.

He endured the rest of the torture by plastering a relatively mild expression on his face and retreating back into his mind palace. When it was finally over, Eric gave him a quick peck on the lips before Sherlock hastily escaped back to his seat, unaware of the roar from the Friday night crowd.

The next few hours seemed to drag on without an end. Finally—_finally_—the show was over and after a brief discussion with Mike Channing and his staff, the partners were able to leave the strip club. John had remained eerily silent the whole night, which was caused a rising sense of alarm in Sherlock.

Once again, the genius paid their cab fare and was left scrambling up the steps behind his blogger. He quietly slipped off his coat and turned to find John. Sherlock had expected that the doctor would have continued his routine of post-club tea, but tonight he shrugged out of his sexy black jacket and discarded it onto the back of his chair and headed for the hallway.

"John—" Sherlock called out in a pleading tone, trying to gain the other's attention.

His blogger resolutely ignored him as he stormed up the stairs to his bedroom and slammed the door behind him.

Sherlock felt an uncomfortable and unidentifiable twinge in his chest. He groaned and sank down into the cool embrace of his leather chair. The genius tried to focus on the evidence, on victims—on _anything_—but his mind continually circled back to John. He growled and tugged angrily at his curls. Whatever this emotion, this feeling was, it most certainly was unwelcome. Sherlock spent the rest of the early hours of the morning contemplating this unfamiliar reaction to John's behavior.

* * *

John threw himself face-first onto his bed and screamed into his pillow.

There were times, like tonight, that made him wonder if Sherlock was truly capable of having feelings. _Not unless it somehow_ _revolves_ _around him_, the doctor thought bitterly. He had been a fool to think that his flat mate would have understood his need—his duty—to help that little girl earlier. So it had made them late for their stakeout. What was that compared to saving a child's life?

And yes, he knew that what they were doing was hopefully going to save other lives and bring justice to those who had lost a loved one. John truly admired the work Sherlock did—he helped so many people and asked for nothing in return. _Alright—so he didn't necessarily do it for the proper reasons (not like Greg), but he did it nonetheless._ _That counted for something, right?_

All John really wanted was for Sherlock to just acknowledge that the work he did was meaningful, that it made a difference. He was willing to forgive a great many things when it came to the consulting detective. The doctor had even welcomed him back will open arms when he returned from the dead. He had delivered a nasty left hook to Sherlock's jaw for the whole suicide ruse—though in John's defense, his best friend had deserved it. The point was, the doctor just wanted his partner to think that his work was important too and not to completely invalidate the last twenty years of his life.

He flipped over onto his back and stared unseeing up at his ceiling. He subconsciously brought his right hand up to rub at the sharp ache on the left side of his chest. Loving Sherlock wasn't easy and sometimes it seemed damn near impossible. Oddly enough, John knew he had the fortitude to withstand being shot, enduring hours on end of physical torture, and the thousand other things that had happened to him over the course of his friendship with Sherlock… But this complete sense of apathy might kill him.

* * *

So okay—he was man enough to admit when he had made a mistake. And based on the fact that John had given him the silent treatment all last night, he was pretty sure that he had made another one. Sherlock didn't understand. _He thinks I don't care about his work, _he suddenly realized. The genius sighed; nothing could have been further from the truth.

Sherlock knew that this was one of those occasions where he needed to simply swallow his pride and apologize to his blogger-and he was certain that this one would require more effort than just the act of preparing the tea. He looked down at his Rolex. It would be a good hour before John awoke. That should be sufficient time to work out what he was going to say.

The detective perched on his usual chair at their small kitchen table. While his mind raced through scenarios and phrases, he drummed impatiently on the surface. It didn't seem like any time had passed when he heard John's footsteps descend the stairs.

John hesitated when he rounded the corner to the kitchen. _Great. Sherlock's here waiting for me_, he thought. He wasn't in the mood for this. He hardly had gotten any sleep last night and the last thing he needed for his flat mate to prattle on.

He momentarily thought about just turning around and walking out, but that would have been childish. And he knew that he would have to eventually face the genius at some point. _Best just to get this over with…_

The second John sat down, Sherlock was out of his own chair and began putting on the kettle. The doctor leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. Oh this was good. The only time the consulting detective bothered to make their tea was when he wanted to apologize for something. Any other time, he couldn't get the genius to even so much as return his dirty cup to the sink.

Not a word was said between them as Sherlock went about with his preparations. In that time, an apprehensive silence filled the space around them. The only sounds to be heard were the clinking of the cups on saucers and spoons on china.

Moments later, the genius was standing beside him, holding out his peace offering.

John signed and accepted the cup of tea from his flat mate. "Sherlock, do you even know what you're apologizing for?"

Sherlock took the seat across from John and folded his hands on top of the tabletop. "Yes, I do. It occurred to me that I might have offended you last evening. It was not my intention, John. I want you to know that I only have the highest respect for your profession. You are a better man than I. I admire you for your abilities."

The doctor blinked in surprise. Not only had Sherlock made him tea, but he had actually verbally apologized. Normally, he just did tea. The last time that the two happened in conjunction with one another was when the genius came back from the dead.

The consulting detective cleared his throat and averted his eyes. "I think it was rather honorable of you to...um…save that little girl's life, even when you were off duty."

"Thank you," John said. "I just want you to acknowledge that what I do is just as important as what you do."

"I believe its more so, John," Sherlock murmured and stood quickly. He readjusted his suit jacket and buttoned the last closure before making a hasty retreat into the sitting room.

The doctor stared after his best friend. _Well—this is certainly new!_ he though.

* * *

Sherlock spent the next several hours doing God knows what on his laptop. There really wasn't anything he could to do for the case at the moment, so John decided he would try and read that book all the ladies at the surgery were reading. They had wanted a man's perspective on the novel, so they coerced the doctor into reading it. Sarah had even lent him her copy.

He raised his eyebrows in surprise as the scene became rather…interesting. He knew that it was a romance, but apparently he had missed the part in their hushed conversations where they discussed the graphic nature of said book. Wow…not what he was expecting… John couldn't help but blush at the explicit detail written out before him.

He was half way through that scene when he felt that familiar laser beam heat that meant he was once again under his flat mate's scrutiny. John looked up to find Sherlock frowning at him.

"Why are you subjecting yourself to such drivel?" the genius demanded. "Even the title is completely inaccurate. There are definitely more than fifty shades—"

"It's just a novel, Sherlock. The title doesn't have to be a factual statement," John replied and turned the page.

"I can tell you how it ends, if you like," Sherlock offered.

"Nope. That's okay; I'll just read it for myself, thanks."

"I don't understand the fetishes people have," the detective confessed. "How does one gain pleasure from being morally debased through acts of subjugation?"

"Oh, God. Are we really going to talk about this?" John asked as he slipped a bookmaker in to hold his place. He set the novel down on his lap and looked at his best friend. "I'm sure this would be a better topic for you to discuss with Ms. Adler."

Sherlock shook his head and deposited his laptop onto the coffee table. "No. She said that showing me was a better way to gain understanding. I may enjoy conversing with her, but I do not trust The Woman to bind me to anything. Though I am strangely intrigued by the idea, honestly."

John's eyebrows were going to be permanently lodged in his hairline at his rate. "Really? I never thought you'd be the type to enjoy bondage—your tastes being too posh and all."

That earned him a noncommittal shrug. "It has some appeal. It all depends on your partner, doesn't it? Those acts are best done with someone you trust explicitly, yes?"

"Usually, yes…"

"See? Therefore it would be unwise to allow Irene such control," Sherlock reasoned. "It wouldn't be like if I were to allow you that control."

"_What?!_ Are you asking—" the doctor was cut off by Lestrade's ringer ID sounding off on the genius' mobile.

Sherlock regarded him curiously for several seconds before he remembered his phone. At least this time he turned the speaker on so they both could hear.

"Hello Lestrade."

"Sherlock. I need you to come back down to the club," the DI stated. He sounded tired and agitated.

The consulting detective rolled his eyes. "There's no new evidence—"

"There was another murder last night."

"What?! Seriously?" John cried from across the room.

"Yeah—another one. This time it's that bloke Eric, the one who was so keen on Sherlock," Greg informed them.

The partners shared a knowing look before Sherlock replied, "We'll be there in twenty."


	6. Porn Shops & Popper Pants

**Oh can you just see where this is going with a chapter title like that? This particular establishment is modeled after a similar shop in Philly...I'll just leave it to your imagination.**

**Warning: Description of the 3rd murder is a little gross...**

**Fun pointless fact: This was actually the 1st scene I wrote for this fic! Captain Evil loved it, so now you're reading it!**

* * *

"Oh wow…this is sadistic on a whole new level…" John murmured.

Lestrade stood next to him with his arms crossed over his chest and nodded. "A right sick bastard, if you ask me."

Sherlock remained silent as he leaned in closer. Eric Saab, a.k.a. Blond Guy, had been found kneeling in front of the pole that was mounted on the right-hand side of the stage. It was of no surprise that he was bound with his hands behind his back with the customary g-string. Neither was it startling that there was another one tied over his mouth, like a gag.

What set this particular murder apart was the massive puddle of blood pooling between his spread knees and the dried rivulets running down his thighs. Eric had been wearing a black thong, so upon first glance it wouldn't be noticed that something might have been amiss. On second glance, though, it was easy to see that the underwear no longer fit properly.

"This was vindictive, to say the least," the consulting detective finally spoke.

Perhaps it was the gruesomeness of confronting a male victim with his manly bits missing that kept Sherlock and Anderson from squabbling. In fact, the two were being downright civil to one another. When asked, the genius stepped aside to allow the forensics specialist to continue working without interference.

Carefully, Anderson peeled the g-string away from the victim's mouth. No sooner had he done so than he leaned away from the body and began retching violently.

"Jesus!" Greg cried at the same time John exclaimed, "Oh, God!"

Sherlock remained stoic as ever as he reached a gloved hand up to pull the victim's missing penis out of his mouth. He held it out for Anderson to bag, only to be left sitting there holding the dismembered part as the forensics specialist turned away yet again to throw up. The genius sighed and dropped the piece of flesh into an evidence bag himself.

John was almost glad that he had a shift to pull at the surgery this afternoon. He shuddered as he looked at the corpse before him. The poor man had been alive when he was…_dismembered_. As soon as that phrasing pasted through his brain, the doctor had to fight the urge to giggle hysterically.

_And that's my official queue to leave for work!_ he thought, lest he burst out into very inappropriate laughter over a very juvenile thought. He would not want to explain the pun to Sherlock or why he found it so morbidly amusing. _Get it? His 'member'? He was dis-'membered'!_

"Can you manage without me this afternoon?" John questioned aloud. He was hesitant to leave his flat mate for some unnamed reason.

Without looking up from the body, Sherlock waved his blogger away with a shooing motion. "Of course I can manage, John. Your shift at the surgery is only four and a half hours, after all. I'll text you if I require anything."

"God knows you will!" the doctor declared before turning heel and leaving.

Despite the gruesome scene before him, Lestrade chuckled at his mate's parting words.

"What?" the genius asked, not understanding the DI's amusement.

Greg just shook his head. There was no use in explaining since Sherlock had no idea how taxing he could be on others.

* * *

_John, meet me at Hot Pants in half an hour._ ~SH

**What? Meet you WHERE?!** ~JW

_Honestly, John—Hot Pants! I know you've seen it. You commented on it several times when we've passed it._ ~SH

**Yes, I know! But why am I meeting you there, Sherlock**? ~JW

**You do know it's a porn shop, right?** ~JW

**Right?** ~JW

**Do you know what porn is?** ~JW

**Sherlock?** ~JW

_Yes, John—I know what porn is! _ ~SH

**And I need to meet you there why?** ~JW

_We need to find you an acceptable costume_. ~SH

**FOR WHAT?!** ~JW

_I'm too easily recognizable, especially after the Moriarty debacle_. ~SH

**Sherlock, that still doesn't answer my question…** ~JW

_I thought I made myself perfectly clear—I need you to go undercover. _ ~SH

_You're quite fit_. ~SH

**Um…thanks…?** ~JW

_No—that's not what I meant! Well, it is—I mean, you are, but…besides the point!_ ~SH

_What I meant is that the ladies seem to go for your type._ ~SH

**I don't like where this is going…** ~JW

_John, you're mildly attractive. You have no problem picking up women. This will be perfect. I've already arranged everything with the club manager so you're all set._ ~SH

**What am I doing, Sherlock?** ~JW

_I've ALREADY said! Going undercover at the club! You're their newest dancer/ stripper…whatever_. ~SH

**I'm going to call you.** ~JW

**Sherlock…** ~JW

**I'm NOT amused…** ~JW

**PICK UP YOUR DAMN PHONE!** ~JW

_No need to shout. I was merely hailing a cab_. ~SH

_Where are you? Your shift at the surgery ended forty-five minutes ago._ ~SH

**I'm in the tube, you git! I'll be there in ten.** ~JW

Resurfacing from the underground, John had to blink several times before his eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight. He jogged the extra block and a half to the shop as to not keep the detective waiting too much longer. He seemed like he was already in a mood as it was. Though to be fair, so was John. He might just kill Sherlock himself for this.

And there the genius was, pacing up and down the sidewalk in front of the store entrance, with his great coat billowing out behind him. _So much for being inconspicuous_, the doctor thought wryly and rolled his eyes.

"John! There you are! It's about time!" Sherlock called out, causing several other people on the street to turn and look in their direction.

_God, this was embarrassing enough without an audience!_

"Shh! Can you please keep your voice down? It's bad enough that you're stalking in front of a _bloody_ porn shop!" John hissed and dragged his flat mate into the store before the genius could make another scene.

The shop attendant greeted them as they passed the counter. Sherlock, for a change, attempted to use his virtually non-existent manners to chat her up—much to John's annoyance. He resolutely ignored her as he continued to pull the younger man towards the back corner of the store.

"What the _hell_ are you thinking?!" John demanded. "Are you _mental_?! You want me to go undercover as a _stripper_?!"

"Yes, I thought that part was obvious by now. Don't be so dull, John," Sherlock replied in a bored huff.

Glaring, the older man crossed his arms over his chest and somehow morphed from Dr. Watson in _Captain_ Watson. The consulting detective was momentarily caught off guard by the shift in persona. John was always so much more agreeable and good-natured when he was The Doctor. _But there was something ever so intriguing about the army captain_…Sherlock hastily shoved that thought into a locked room in his mind palace. _Best not to dwell on certain things_…

"I am nearly forty years old, in case you've forgotten," John stated. "Well past the prime age for a male stripper."

He sighed heavily. There was no way he could do this without his blogger's cooperation, so Sherlock gave in.

"As I've explained to you, I cannot do this myself as I am too easily recognized. The only way to draw out the killer is for you to go undercover at the club. We've established that victims have all fit a certain criteria—which you just happen to match most of. You seem like quite the ladies' man and are fit enough to pull this off with hopefully relative ease."

Sherlock could tell John was teetering on a precipice.

"Please? Do this for me?" the detective asked. And there it was! The crack in the proverbial armor. He saw the precise moment when John's will bent to his own.

"Alright, Sherlock," the doctor exhaled, defeated. "So what do I need to do?"

The genius steeped his hands in front of his face and twirled around, taking in the contents of the shop as he hid his triumphant grin from his flat mate.

"First things first!" Sherlock declared. "You need a persona that's unique to you, but something that you won't have to work overly hard to maintain—preferably something familiar…"

Oh, no. John recognized that mischievous gleam in detective's eyes. His next question came out as a statement rather than an inquiry, "You already have something in mind."

"Yes, as a matter of fact!" Sherlock grabbed John's right arm and dragged him over to a rack of trousers. "This was what I had in mind!"

The doctor ran his free hand over his face once he saw the pair of fatigue trousers his flat mate presented to him.

"So…you want me to strip out of a pair of fatigues? Seriously?"

"Women love a man in uniform, John," Sherlock stated-matter-of-factly. "I have this on expert opinion. And you're a military man—it's not a persona you have to work at, it's already there."

"This is a mockery and a travesty to Her Majesty's Royal Army and to the sanctity of my rank," the older man declared, knowing that it would fall on deaf ears.

"But it's _perfect_," insisted the genius.

"I must be psychotically deranged to be doing this. It just seems wrong…" John muttered to himself, caving yet again to his best friend.

"Excellent!" Sherlock cried and grabbed John's size off the rack and then also picked up the matching jacket and beret. He draped his finds over his arm. It was then that he noticed the peculiar nature for the trousers.

"What are these snaps for?" the detective asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

_This day just kept getting better and better!_ John thought sarcastically. He wasn't sure what he did to deserve this kind of torture. He answered, however, because he knew Sherlock wouldn't drop it otherwise.

"They are popper pants."

"Popper…pants? I don't understand," Sherlock admitted with a frown.

The doctor facepalmed then responded, "They…tear away when you pull at them."

His explanation was met by a blank stare. John sighed and tried again, "Look, it's more of a visual thing."

"You'll have to demonstrate when we get home because this is eluding any knowledge I have on the subject," Sherlock confessed.

It never ceased to amaze him how brilliant Sherlock was in some things yet so spectacularly ignorant in others. Now was a good time, in John's estimation, to walk away.

He realized momentarily that he had chosen the wrong direction, as he was suddenly confronted with rows and rows of g-strings.

Sherlock picked up a leopard print one and examined it. "I must admit that I find these quite fascinating. Look at how small they are! I can't imagine this would be comfortable. This would barely cover the necessities!"

John reached over and plucked the thong out of his flat mate's hand and reshelved it. "That's sort of the idea, Sherlock."

"Oh! This one is perfect! It will complete your outfit rather nicely!" the consulting detective announced proudly.

It was a good thing it was medically impossible to choke on one's own tongue, for the doctor might have done just that as he spun around to see Sherlock holding up a royal blue g-string, the front sequined in the design of the Union Jack.

"And the whole outfit will be very patriotic," the genius rambled on, trying to appeal to the doctor's sense of duty. "You're 'into' that sort of thing, John!"

Of course there was no way to talk Sherlock out of it once he had the idea firmly planted in his head. John remained stoically silent for the remainder of the excursion. As a result, this made the genius more talkative than usual. In fact, he rambled on the whole ride back to Baker Street about the various compounds of lubricant exotic dancers used.

By the time he climbed the seventeen steps up to their sitting room, John was physically and mentally exhausted. He just wanted to sit down with a nice cup of tea, some of those biscuits Mrs. Hudson had just made him, and maybe a little crap telly before calling it a night.

Sherlock, of course, had other plans. Other plans that included a more in-depth explanation of "popper pants".

"I need to have the visual for this, John!" he exclaimed, trying to convince his blogger to demonstrate. "It's imperative that I have this information if I am to be able to fully understand the killer's actions!"

"Alright! Alright! Fine!" the doctor shouted. He ripped the proffered bag out of his flat mate's hands and stormed off into the bathroom. John made sure to slam the door just for good measure.

He stripped down to his white undershirt and discarded his comfortable boxers in favor of the ridiculously sequined thong. It seemed so wrong that he had fought under those very colors not so long ago—and now they were cradling his man goods. He tried not to think about it too much, lest he have an aneurysm.

He slid on the popper pants and spent a minute looking at himself in the mirror. Perhaps this wasn't so bad—after all, they made his arse look fantastic. In fact, the trousers hugged him perfectly from every angle he could see. Satisfied with what he saw, John marched back out into the sitting room.

Sherlock turned to regard him and nearly dropped the skull he was holding in his hands.

"Turn—ahem! Turn around, please," the detective asked, his voice breaking.

Smirking, John held his arms out from his body and did a slow three-hundred and sixty degree turn in front of his best friend. That's right; John Watson knew how sexy he looked in a pair of fatigues.

"I still don't understand the snaps…" Sherlock mumbled and licked his suddenly dry lips.

"The pants tear away when you pull at them," the doctor explained slowly, as if to a young child.

"Show me," the younger man breathed.

John reached down to the waist band of the pants and yanked them off, leaving him standing there in his sparkly thong.

Sherlock glanced back and forth from the pants now dangling from John's hand, to the doctor's sequined covered crotch. He took tentative step towards his blogger, reaching out—reaching out for what, he wasn't sure.

But at that precise moment, they heard a feminine shriek from their doorway.

"Oh, you boys really must remember to lock the door if you plan on doing these sorts of things in the sitting room!" Mrs. Hudson chided, not bothering to hide her self-satisfied smile as she turned around and disappeared as silently as she arrived.

John blushed furiously and stormed up the final flight of stairs to his bedroom. Sherlock didn't see him again for the rest of the night.

_Damn Mrs. Hudson and her untimely appearances!_ The detective thought venomously. His need to touch John had overcome all common sense as his blogger had stood in front of him with those ridiculous trousers hanging from his hand…standing there in that thong…_Why is it so ungodly warm in here?!_ He undid a few more buttons on his shirt. _I need a distraction_…his eyes landed on his violin, which sat waiting on the desk.

He tucked it under his chin and coaxed harsh noises from it before settling into a more pleasing tune. His thoughts drifted back to his flat mate. Sherlock tested a few notes then scribbled them down. He teased out a sultry rhythm that was an ode to John, pouring into the melody all of his pent up emotions—emotions he refused to admit except in the private recesses of his mind. Though this line of thought always led him down a one way street. _Wonder what his skin would feel like against mine…what his lips would taste like…_

Sherlock sighed dramatically as his trousers became uncomfortably tight. He ignored it in favor of composing this new piece. A short time later, he decided it was a lost cause, as it turned out. The more he concentrated on the music, the more he thought about the man in question, and more he thought about the man in question, the more aroused he became. Finally when it was clear that the problem would not be ignored, he gave in and abandoned his violin on the arm of his chair.

He strode with purpose into his bedroom and locked the door behind him. Sherlock unzipped his trousers as he flopped unceremoniously down onto his mattress. He sighed in relief as he closed his hand around his straining erection. The frequency of these occurrences was becoming rather alarming. The detective tried to just think of this as a means to an end, envisioning his impending climax as nothing more than something his body suddenly required—like oxygen or food.

_It's just transport, it's just all transport_, he chanted as he stroked himself to completion. He most certainly did _not_ think about how John's hands would reverently caress his heated skin or how those perfect lips would feel wrapped around his throbbing flesh. And when he finally came, he most certainly did _not_ call out John's name.

* * *

**SO before writing this out, as happens with a lot of scenes, Captain Evil and I seriously talked out the dialogue in character to one another. It's really amusing but I'm sure to anyone who doesn't understand this creative process, it'd be disturbing. LOL. What are best friends for, though, if not to help you create Johnlock smut? (and yes-we actually use their tonal range too...I fly a large freak flag, btw...)**

**A heartfelt thanks to all of you who have taken the time to review so far! You are the best :) I appreciate your support.**


	7. Inner Demons

**Angst, as the chapter title suggests. I'm sorry :( but it had to be done. I really had meant this whole fic to be funny, but somehow I think I fell a bit short of the mark...**

**Previous drug use mentioned**

* * *

The first night John danced was without incident. Sherlock sat in the back where he had a view of the entire floor of the club, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The detective was a little disappointed that his blogger only came out for the two group numbers and didn't actually have his own act. _Probably best that he didn't_, Sherlock thought after the fact.

As soon as the club closed down for the night, John wasted no time in immediately dragging his flat mate out of there. There was an urgency to it that alarmed the genius. He knew that the doctor had been uncomfortable any time they had been at Midnight Equilibrium and he had been angry initially about going undercover, but this was far beyond that. It actually worried him somewhat because his best friend was reacting so negatively to the whole case.

The cab ride back to Baker Street was silent and tense, with John wound tighter than a spring. Sherlock was desperate to find out what was going on in the other's head, but even he was aware that it would be a bit not good to start a conversation like that in the back of cab. As soon as the car stopped in front of their door, the doctor was out faster than Sherlock thought was possible. With a heavy sigh, the consulting detective threw enough money at the driver to cover their fair and bolted up the steps to their flat after his blogger.

Predictably, John was in the kitchen starting his tea ritual. Sherlock shook his head as a small smile crossed his lips, _Ever the Englishman—finding comfort in his tea… _The detective sat his leather chair so that he would be seated across from John when the other finally joined him.

When the tea was done, the doctor carried two cups into the sitting room and handed one to Sherlock before he fell into the comfortable embrace of his armchair. He sipped absently at his tea, not really tasting it. _But that wasn't really the purpose of making it, now was it?_ The genius had mocked him many times in the past for his quintessentially British habit, but there was something comfortable and familiar about it, like a ritual.

"John," Sherlock addressed him in a low voice, bringing him out of his reverie.

Another absentminded sip. "Hmm?"

The detective leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, hands clasped in front of him in a manner that signaled they were about to have a serious discussion.

"I know I promised you that I wasn't going to press you about this, but…what's going on? You're more on edge tonight than you've been since we started this case. It's alarming, to be quite frank."

John sighed warily and asked, "You can't deduce it?"

"I'd rather not with this."

"Med school is expensive, Sherlock. I had to pay for it somehow."

The genius was rather taken back by the admission. "You mean—?"

"Yes, alright? Yes, I was a stripper! Why do you think this whole damn case has had me so edgy? It's bringing up things from the past that I would rather have left behind me," John declared with no real heat, he was really too tired for that.

"What happened?" Sherlock's baritone was low and soft as he asked.

John scrubbed his face with his hands and leaned forward, mimicking his flat mate's posture. "My family didn't have the money to pay for med school and my grants weren't enough, so on nights when I wasn't putting my time in at Bart's, I stripped. I had a classmate who told me about how much money he'd made in just one night—told me I should join him. He introduced me to his boss and I started just a few days later…"

He trailed off and stared down at the floor for several minutes, lost in thought. Sherlock waited patiently, knowing that John would tell him the rest in his own time.

The doctor's voice was barely above a whisper when he started again. "I was okay for the first few months or so…but then my studies became more intense and I started to feel like I was in a never ending cycle that I couldn't break out of. I needed the money, but I hated it…I watched my mate go through the same thing. He turned to drugs as a way of coping—in fact, he died of cardiac arrest caused by the recreational use of chloroform."

"Like Bryan Harper, our second victim," the genius acknowledged.

"Precisely."

"And what about you?"

"I started taking ephedrine to keep myself going—and yes, I know it's _legal_, but I was taking more and more of it…Had I continued doing what I was doing, it most certainly would have—," John stopped and took a deep breath. "The army saved me. If that recruiter hadn't been round to see me exactly when he did, I don't know what would have happened."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock murmured. "I had no idea this case was causing you so much distress."

John shrugged, "It's not like you knew, so…no harm."

"But that's not true, is it? This whole thing has upset you and I pushed you into going undercover even though I knew you weren't comfortable. I would have never asked you to do this, John, if I had any idea, believe me," the genius said. "I can understand if you decide you don't want to do this anymore. I won't pressure you to."

Shaking his head, John responded, "No. We've already invested too much time and effort into this. I won't back out now. I've been through worse, Sherlock. I can handle this. I'm nothing if not a soldier."

Sherlock reached out a hand and placed it over John's, startling the older man. Pained, deep blue eyes met concerned icy blue. "You're not in this alone, you know," his flat mate reminded him. "I know what it's like to be faced with a bad situation like this, to struggle under the burden of addiction. I don't do feelings well, but…I _do_ care about you, John."

His blogger offered him a tentative smile and patted the hand on his. Such an admission from the genius was almost a declaration of love. John was grateful for the support from his best friend. Sherlock didn't necessarily do feelings, as he had just stated, but sometimes he knew just the right thing to say.

And that was decidedly enough emotion for one night, so the doctor stood and gathered up their tea cups to deposit them in the kitchen sink. He turned to head up the stairs to his bedroom before he paused and turned back to Sherlock, suddenly remembering something.

"Oh—there was something I was able to find out tonight," he declared. "Apparently no one thought it was important to mention that both Alex Kelly and Eric Saab received a delivery of flowers on the days of their deaths; a bunch of thirteen roses—both bouquets were white with black tipped petals. I bet if we check with Bryan Harper's office, we'll find that he got the same floral delivery…"

Sherlock stared at him a moment, stunned. "Brilliant, John! This might be the break we've been looking for! Now if we only knew which one delivered to the club…that could be problematic, given the sheer number of florists…"

"Don't bother. I know which one," John chimed in before the genius could go off on a wild hunt for flowers. "They were from The Golden Thorn. Although, they have three separate locations in the greater London area, so we'd have to find out which one they came from."

"You're sure?" Sherlock questioned eagerly.

John nodded, "Yep. One of the other guys made an offhanded comment about Eric getting roses, so I checked his dressing table area. Found the little florist card that came with the bouquet."

"But it could have come from any florist," his flat mate argued.

"Nope—The Golden Thorn is the only one that I know of that has this specific card: it's a deep burgundy cardstock with the Tudor rose embossed in gold on the left hand side. Used to go to them when I wanted to send my girlfriends flowers."


	8. Prelude to a Dream

**I'd like to dedicate this chapter to the darling KayelleJohnlock who has been so patiently *cough* waiting for our lovely boys to hook up...though I'm not quite sure this is what you were looking for...nevertheless-I hope you enjoy it, my dear!**

* * *

It was quite early the next morning when Sherlock crept into John's room. He had already checked—the floral shop didn't open until nine, so there was no need for his blogger to be up for several more hours yet. The doctor had always been an early riser—old military habits he probably would never break—but the genius had the overwhelming urge to be in his presence.

Sherlock knew it was dangerous for him to be there, but he couldn't help himself. He delicately perched on the edge of the mattress and watched the rhythmic rise and fall of John's chest as he breathed. A few days ago, he had told the doctor that he was 'mildly attractive', but he knew that wasn't true. There was nothing 'mild' about John Watson. The consulting detective had never been this drawn to another human being in his entire life. His thoughts were haunted by this man. It was a phenomenon he couldn't explain.

John's face, made peaceful in slumber, looked years younger. Sherlock wondered if it would be possible to replicate that expression while his doctor was awake. The longer he sat there admiring the older man's countenance, the more Sherlock contemplated John's full, rosy lips. _Were they as soft as they looked? What would they feel like beneath my own? Would John ever really let me kiss him?_

He was no longer surprised when thoughts like these echoed through the halls of his mind palace. The genius had never wanted physical contact with anyone else before—it had been just transport, he didn't need the interaction like the rest of humanity seemed to. Despite what Mycroft seemed to think, he wasn't quite as virginal as everyone believed. He never bothered to correct any of them because it suited his purpose. After all, he had experimented at uni just like most, but he had found that certain activities were dull and a waste of his time.

Perhaps he had been too hasty in dismissing intimacy entirely. It left Sherlock to contemplate whether it wasn't just the act itself that mattered, but rather the familiarity of the person one engaged with that made the difference. It was never something he had wanted before, but now the genius found that he craved it with an intensity that scared him.

Without even realizing he had moved, his right hand reached out and his fingertips feathered across John's mouth. Sherlock bit his bottom lip to keep from moaning aloud at the softness of them.

The doctor stirred slightly, causing the genius to startle and jar the mattress.

"Sh'lock?" John questioned in a sleep induced fog. "What 're you doin'? Somethin' wrong?"

"I—no, John," Sherlock pacified him. On a sudden whim, he decided to answer truthfully. "I was just wondering what it would be like to kiss you," he murmured softly.

John sighed and reached out for his flat mate's hand. "So kiss me, then."

The detective leaned forward and brushed their lips together in the barest, softest caress. His blogger smiled sleepily before captured his mouth in a slow, sensual kiss that set all of his nerve endings on fire. Nothing he had experienced in the past had ever felt like that. When John finally released him, Sherlock was finding it hard to breathe.

The detective started to get up—to retreat before he did something he might regret later—but before he could even stand, John had grabbed a hold of his wrist and pulled the younger man down towards him.

"Is too early, sleep more," his blogger mumbled into the pillow as he wrapped an arm around Sherlock's waist, forcing him to lie down beside him.

Heart beating wildly and mind whirling in circles, the genius compelled himself to submit to John's warm embrace. Within seconds, John's breathing evened out once more as he fell back into REM sleep. The speed at which he did so caused Sherlock to hypothesize that his blogger would more than likely just assume this was all dream when he finally did wake. But that was alright for the time being.

Eventually the consulting detective relaxed against the comfortable warmth and solidness that was John Watson. He didn't sleep, but the contact actually served to allow his brain to function on a higher level—one that he had only ever been able to reach through the use of an external stimulant. It was glorious. However, he was mindful that he should not be there when John actually awoke.

Quietly and carefully, as not to disturb his doctor, Sherlock detangled himself from the other man and crept back out into the cold silence of the flat.

It was an hour later before he heard John stir. Being uncharacteristically thoughtful, he put on the kettle and had the tea ready by the time his flat mate entered the kitchen.

"Morning, Sherlock," John greeted him with a genuine smile that reached the depths of his oh-so-blue eyes. "You made the tea?"

"John," the genius acknowledged. "Though I choose not to, I am capable of brewing a mere cup of tea."

There was a child-like laugh that met his statement. "Yes—I know. I'm simply surprised. You only make tea if you're apologizing for something. So—what have you done this time?"

"Nothing, I assure you. Though I do feel some lingering regret for having to involve you in this case, especially since I now understand why you were so reluctant to begin with," Sherlock answered. It was partially true, after all.

John set about making them each toast. He glanced back over his shoulder at the detective. "No worries. There's no need for you to feel bad about it. I could have said no, and I didn't."

Sherlock took a sip of his rapidly cooling tea and smirked. "No, you wouldn't have."

Again there was that amazing, amused laugh. "You're right. I can't seem to deny you anything, you git."

"And that's how I like it."

"I'm sure."

* * *

Twenty minutes later, the partners found themselves seated comfortably in the back of cab on their way to the nearest Golden Thorn florist shop. It also happened to be the one right around the corner from John's surgery, which made it the most logical place to start.

They existed in a companionable silence, enjoying the rare beautiful sunny morning as the streets of London rushed by their windows.

Unconsciously, the doctor started humming the detective's newly composed violin piece—the one he had been writing for John. The genius was unaware that his blogger had been awake during the composition.

"So what has you in such a chipper mood this morning?" Sherlock questioned, amused.

John just shrugged. "I had a good dream last night, is all. Put me in a good mood."

"Care to share?"

The doctor's answering blush was all he needed to know. So even though John didn't remember their kiss and cuddle in the hushed, pre-dawn hours—he assumed it had been a dream—he was not entirely unaffected by it either. That gave Sherlock hope.

And just like that they had arrived at their destination. The Golden Thorn was a quaint little florist shop, the typical picture window with a tasteful seasonally appropriate display, and a rich burgundy awning over the door with the name and their logo printed on it in gold lettered script.

As they stepped in, the door bell chimed to alert the clerk of their entrance. Sherlock was momentarily overcome by the overpowering scent of over two dozen types of flora bombarding him at once. He was never quite sure how someone could stand to work under such adverse conditions. Surely women didn't think such noxious fumes were appealing? He sighed; it was moments like this that made him grateful he never saw the need to engage in pointless courting rituals.

"Oh my stars! Johnny Watson! Where have you been?!" exclaimed the petite blond shop girl.

John grinned and swept her up in a bear hug.

"I thought you had forgotten all about me there for awhile!" she teased as she playfully slapped him on the shoulder.

"I'd never forget you, sweetheart," he said with that thousand watt smile.

The detective was decidedly not jealous of this little wisp of a thing that reeked of floral sperm.

"And who is tall, dark, and handsome over there?" the girl asked with raised eyebrow.

The doctor let go of the woman and wrapped an arm around his flat mate. "Mary, this is my best mate and colleague, the amazing Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, this is an old friend of mine, Mary Morstan."

Mary smiled as she glanced back and forth between the partners. "Wow—looks like you're doing pretty well off for yourself, there Johnny…"

John blushed at her insinuation, but didn't refute it. Sherlock was pleased to note that his blogger's hand was still resting on the small of his back, burning a hole in his suit jacket.

"So what can I do for you gentlemen today?" the florist asked and leaned back against the counter.

"We were wondering if you knew anything about a couple of orders that might have been placed through Golden Thorn—not sure if it was done here or at another one of the shops," John told her.

"Oh. Sure. What are you looking for?" she wanted to know.

"In the past week, there were either two—possibly three—orders placed for thirteen white roses with the tips of the petals dyed black. Two were definitely delivered to a male review club called Midnight Equilibrium," Sherlock stated.

Mary's eyes widened fractionally as recognition dawned on her. "Yeah—I remember those orders. Had three orders in the past week, actually. The third was delivered to an office building. Thought it was a little creepy, the symbolism of black roses and all…"

"Do you remember who placed the orders?" the doctor questioned.

Pursing her lips together with a grim look on her face and nodded. "Yep. She—"

"_She?_" Sherlock cried out in surprise.

"Yeah," Mary confirmed. "She paid in cash every time—never got her name, but she was about five-eight, long red hair. Pretty fit, too, if you ask me."

The consulting detective assessed the shop girl with a critical eye. "You're sure?"

The florist nodded solemnly, "Positive—because she came back in not even half an hour before you got here."

"And who did she order flowers for this time?" Sherlock asked, already knowing the answer.

"Um…well…she asked to have them sent to Midnight Equilibrium—to Johnny…"

The genius had a homicidal expression in his face. John reached over and laid a calming hand on his arm. "This was why I went undercover in the first place, isn't it?"

Sherlock took a deep breath and reapplied, "You're right, John."

"This is what we do, after all. It isn't the first time I've put my life on the line for a case—we live for this!" the doctor stated.

A deep baritone chuckle answered him. "We do, don't we?"

"Well, Mary—thanks for your time. That should help us actually crack this case," John declared with a smile for his old friend. He strolled back out into the bright sunlight.

Sherlock turned to follow, but was stopped by a hand on his sleeve. He gave Mary a curious look.

"You fancy him, don't you?" she asked bluntly.

He was so thrown off by the question that it didn't occur to him to deny the claim. "Yes, I believe I do."

"Johnny's a sweetheart. He's been through a lot. He deserves someone who will treat him like he's their whole world…is that you, Mr. Holmes?" Mary queried.

"Yes, Ms. Morstan, it is."

"You know—his favorite flowers are roses."

Sherlock quirked a half-smile and gave in. _Pointless dating rituals, ha_. "So what would you suggest?"

Mary answered with a grin and, "Well, it depends on what you want to say. For example, two entwined stems ask 'Marry me', half a dozen say that the sender needs to loved and cherished, eleven roses symbolize that the receiver is deeply loved, and receiving thirteen roses means you have a secret admirer. The color also holds significance."

The detective glanced over at the display of the flowers in question. There was one he was particularly fond of; his mother had cultivated them in her rose garden when he was a boy. Sherlock reached over and pulled out a fully bloomed tea rose with yellow petals tinged around the edges with pink.

"Ah…the peace rose," the florist acknowledged as she took the stem from his fingers. "Are you aware of its meaning?"

"No, not presently," Sherlock confessed.

"They symbolize that the giver is falling in love…"

"Eleven shall be just perfect, then."

* * *

**I totally had Mary coerce Sherlock into buying flowers... And you wouldn't believe the massive amount of symbolism behind giving a person roses! I think in-depth research is needed before I send the wrong message to the wrong person-yikes!**

**And he's finally admitted his feeling for John out loud to another person! YAY! If I were Sherlock's personal counselor (because, that _is_ in fact my day job, btw), I would be so proud of him *tear*. I think I'd molest John in his sleep too...**


	9. Show Time!

**Thanks for staying with me, everybody! Almost there... And a special thanks to all of you who have taken the time to ****review****! I have to say-many of the comments have made me smile :D **

**Obligatory ****Disclaimer****—I**** don't own Sherlock or the Weather Girls' song **_**It's Raining Men**_**. (Though I did listen to it on repeat while I wrote this chapter and giggled ****the whole**** time...)**

* * *

John arrived at the club early that night. Sherlock had told him to go on ahead, saying he'd meet him there later after he ran an errand.

As suspected, there were thirteen black-tipped roses waiting for him on the dressing room table. He sighed in relief. Even though the flowers were an omen of death, it meant that the killer most definitely would be there tonight and this whole bloody affair was almost over. That, and John had plans for Sherlock he was executing that very evening.

He grinned wolfishly as he thought about those plans. Sherlock was not as immune to the messy, emotional sides of life as he pretended to be. The doctor had the feeling that all it required was a slight push on his end to send the genius tumbling down the proverbial rabbit hole.

It was obvious that the killer had focused specifically on gay males who flaunted their sexuality openly. While the consulting detective was sure that the first two murders were probably more of a crime of passion, clearly the suspect had it out for blond, gay, stripper types.

So it was with all that in mind that the dynamic duo had decided that the best course of action was to entice the murderer with a show. During his solo act, John was to single out Sherlock as Eric Saab had done the night of his unfortunate demise. The detective had wanted to practice the interactive part of the dance together, but the doctor had refused. For what he had in mind for his own private agenda, John wanted Sherlock to react spontaneously. He didn't want the genius to rehearse his response—because it would have also given away what John had planned. After this, they would either end up in bed together or not speaking to one another. And the doctor was fairly certain it was going to be the former.

The other dancers slowly started to filter in while he sat there in contemplation. Rhys and CJ waived and called out a greeting when they walked in. Both were pretty decent guys and John had no trouble picturing himself actually being friends with them after this case was finished. He had shared a little of his past dancing experiences with them and they had gone out of their way to make this experience more comfortable for him than it would have been otherwise.

Rhys was a hulking brute of a man, build like a brick wall. He was taller than Sherlock and had a full beard and moustache which he wore in an old fashioned style reminiscent of medieval times. He also had flaming red hair that, when unbraided, reached down to the middle of his back. His shtick was a Highlander routine, which was really no surprise since he was very clearly Scottish—all he had to do was open his mouth and it left no doubt.

CJ was about John's height and had auburn locks in which his fringe was grown out and combed to hang down over the right side of face. He was a surfer, imported straight from California. He had told the doctor that he was studying at the University of London. John had to smile at that—of all the institutions in America, the kid had decided that he would rather be half way around the world from his home. _"I wanted to be anywhere but there. Britain seemed logical, since I didn't have learn or know a whole other language," CJ had said. "So—here I am!"_ He remembered those days…although John didn't feel the need to actually leave the country in order to go to uni. The army had provided that for him.

The other men were soon joking and making jabs at one another as they lazily started prepping for the night. John joined in on occasion. This part was what had made it easier to be here, the comradery between the other men. They had welcomed John into the fold with open arms.

Mike Channing, the manager popped his head through the stage curtain a few minutes later.

"Oi! You slackers! Come on! We've got a number to rehearse! What the hell do I pay you tossers for?" he chided. "Oh and John—Sherlock's here. Dropping off a prop for you to use in this group act."

John hopped up and decided to use the hallway entrance, knowing that his flat mate was probably waiting for him there. And sure enough, the genius was there, just outside the curtained-off hallway.

"Here, John," Sherlock said as he handed his blogger an umbrella. "You'll need this prop for your group number later."

The doctor eyed the rain gear suspiciously. "Sherlock…I'm not using that. And where did it come from? You didn't nick it from Mycroft, did you?"

"Of course not, John," the detective stated with an odd look on his face.

"Oh, God! You did, didn't you?! He's going to kill me when he finds out!"

"What does it matter where it came from?" Sherlock asked in a huff. "You need it for the number! Didn't the manager tell you about the music selection you're dancing to, John?"

Crossing his arms over his chest, the good doctor glared daggers at his flat mate. "I refuse to debase myself to such a level by dry humping an umbrella—which may or may not be your brother's—while prancing around to that ridiculous song!"

Sherlock just smiled enigmatically at him.

* * *

Later—after rehearsing the very same number that required that damn umbrella—the dancers retreated back into their dressing room to finalize their initial prep for the evening. Several of them made trips out to the bar, or to chat with Mike before the Friday crowd started to filter in.

John was sitting on the stool in front of his dressing table, bending over to apply lotion to his calves when Rhys made a rather loud entrance.

"Ooh! Looks like you're popular tonight, Johnny Boy!" he called out in a singsong voice.

The other dancers started whooping and clapping, jeering at him good-naturedly. _What now?_ The doctor thought as a finished his task. It wasn't until Rhys stopped directly in front of him that he understood. He glanced up to see the other man was holding out another bouquet of rose for him. He blushed profusely, knowing exactly who this was from. It sent a thrill through him and caused an odd fluttering in his stomach. Had anyone asked him before tonight, he would have sworn in front of judge and jury that Sherlock Holmes did not have a romantic bone in his body. It was nice to be proven wrong on this occasion.

He took the proffered bouquet and found the little burgundy florist card hidden among the leaves. Inked in silver pen was Sherlock's signature scrawl with the following sentiment: _As a conductor of light, you are unbeatable_.

John couldn't help but laugh. It had been ages ago that Sherlock had echoed that statement to him. This only served to solidify his decision to finally just go for it. He had come to terms with his feelings for the daft genius some time ago and after that dream he had this morning, John had to know what it was actually like to kiss his flat mate.

"They from your detective friend who's trying to solve the murders?" CJ asked as he eyed the roses curiously.

With a fond smile, the doctor replied, "Yes, actually. They are. Didn't think he had it in him."

"He fancies you," Rhys declared, smirking.

"No—well—I don't know if he does. I'm pretty sure he does—but I'm not a hundred percent sure. We're mates and all, but he's rather private about these things," John stammered.

"Nope—he does. My sister's a florist. Drilled into me the meanings of every damn color of roses out there. This and the number of 'em says he fancies you," countered the other man, his smirk stretching into a wolfish grin.

His heart hammered painfully in his chest as he stared up at the Scotsman. "What does it mean?"

Rhys contemplated him seriously for a second before answering, "That—I think—you should ask him about."

_Like hell_, John thought as he grabbed his mobile up from the table. _Thank God for smartphones!_ It took him only a minute to find the website he was looking for. _No—he can't…can he?!_ Surely Rhys was wrong… John knew that Sherlock had some sort of feelings for him—but this…this was on a whole other level…

And knowing the genius like he did, there was no doubt in his mind that Sherlock knew exactly what the meaning and symbolism was behind his choices.

* * *

Sherlock smirked to himself and whipped out his phone, firing off a text to Lestrade.

_John is set, ready to go undercover. If you would like to catch your killer, I suggest you meet me at Midnight Equilibrium at half ten_. ~SH

**Hang on—what is John doing undercover?!** ~GL

_Lestrade, don't ask stupid questions. It's beneath you. John's involvement was necessary. _~SH

**_…_…..** ~GL

_Honestly! He's the killer's type! I can't do it—too recognizable. Had to be John_. ~SH

**Hope the 2 of you know what you're doing. Will be there.** ~GL

Greg sighed and pocketed his phone. "Slight change of plans, luv. Seems we have to do a bit of surveillance to do first."

"Oh?" his companion asked, intrigued.

* * *

Sherlock smiled up at Lestrade. "Ah, Detective Inspector! Just in time!"

Greg mumbled something in greeting as he fell into the vacant seat next to the tall genius. It was then that Sherlock recognized the man who had been trailing behind the DI.

"Mycroft! What the hell are you doing _here_?" the younger Holmes demanded.

Rolling his eyes, Mycroft sat down beside Greg. "Well, Sherlock, _dear_ brother, we were on a date until we were so rudely interrupted by your summons. You really must work on your timing—it leaves something to be desired."

That left Sherlock sputtering in outrage. "How did I not know this?!"

The DI and the elder Holmes exchanged a glace before Greg replied, "Not sure how _you_ could have missed it. John has known about us since practically the beginning—hell, he's the one that gave me the push to go after your brother in the first place! Didn't he tell you?"

"No," Sherlock answered sullenly. He was going to have a very long discussion with his blogger as soon as this case was over about the sharing of vital information.

He continued to silently fume until the first strands of the music started over the loud speakers. He smirked once he recognized the song John seemed to be so dispassionate about. It really was quite ridiculous, he had to admit, but it was incredibly amusing at the same time.

* * *

John stepped back out onto the stage, pilfered brolly in hand. If he didn't die of humiliation first, he was absolutely going to kill Sherlock for getting him into this. He sighed internally as _that_ song started. He plastered a fake smile onto his face and just went with it for the sake of the case and danced like his life depended on it…

_It's raining men! Hallelujah! It's raining men amen!_

_I'm gonna go out to run and let myself get absolutely soaking wet!_

Sherlock licked his dry lips with the tip of his tongue. _Raining men, indeed_. Was it him or was it just too warm in the club as John's hips swayed to the beat of the music?

He was jolted out of his contemplation of John's hips when Mycroft abruptly asked, "Is that my brolly? Sherlock—did you steal my umbrella for a striptease act?!"

"Sod off, Mycroft! We needed it for the case! It's not like you don't have others."

"That's beside the point!" the politician snapped angrily. "That one is my favorite. It also happened to be a gift from Mummy! And now you have gone and defiled it by having your boyfriend dry hump it in front of a hormonal raging mass of women!"

"John is not my boyfriend!"

"Out of all that, that's what you chose to focus on?"

"Boys—enough! Please," Greg pleaded, trying valiantly to suppress laughter. "We're here to try and catch a killer, not to debate John and Sherlock's relationship status."

Sherlock gave a curt nod of agreement to the DI's words and turned his attention back to the stage. He was pissed that his brother had made him miss part of John's tantalizing performance.

* * *

**The plot monkeys send their undying love to their wonderful auntie Captain Evil! When she suggested that Sherlock should steal ****Mycroft's**** umbrella, I nearly choked to death laughing at the thought of it. The bickering we reenacted over that scene between the Holmes brothers was quite amusing. Though my sister kept looking at us like we had finally lost it...perhaps we have!**

**And I LOVE **_**It's Raining Men—**__**it's**_** really an absolutely ridiculous song, but it never fails to make me smile. Ever. It reminds me of certain gay nightclubs in Philly... ****xD**** If you've never been to one, that is your homework assignment for this weekend—fieldtrip to your respective gay (male) club! I promise you that you won't regret it ;D**


	10. Striptease

**Aaaand the chapter you have all been waiting for—John's solo striptease act!**

**Another Obligatory Disclaimer—I don't own Ke$ha's song _Take It Off_ either. The lyrics are simply there as a point of reference so that you know what he's doing during each stanza…**

**I hope it did this scene justice! Enjoy!**

* * *

It was a while later before John's solo number was performed. Sherlock felt his whole body thrumming with barely restrained excitement.

"So ladies—and gents," CJ acknowledged, "have I got a special treat for you tonight! Joining us this evening for a special performance, recently returned on leave from her majesty's service, is the very salaciously sexy Captain Johnny!"

Sherlock leaned forward, intrigued. He was unaware of John's musical selection, and of course his flat mate had refused to practice in front of him.

_"But if we do not practice how you'll approach me, how will I know how to react?" Sherlock questioned._

_John's answering smirk was not reassuring. "I don't want you to 'rehearse' your reaction, Sherlock. I want you in the heat of the moment right then. I want you to respond spontaneously." _

The crowd roared and clapped as the lights were lowered. The dark outline of John's muscular form appeared in the center of the stage as the first bars of the music started.

_When the dark of the night comes around.  
That's the time that the animal comes alive  
Looking for something wild_.

John marched out onto the small stage dressed to the nines in the tear-away army fatigues. From his position near the back of the club, Sherlock thought the 'uniform' looked convincing authentic. This was sure to be interesting... Perhaps this was the most interesting case they'd done so far—of course that thought had absolutely _nothing_ to do with the idea of John parading around half naked—_stripping_. Nope. Not in the least... Sherlock shifted in his seat, uncomfortable suddenly.

_And now we lookin' like pimps in my gold Trans-Am.  
Got a water bottle full of whiskey in my handbag.  
Got my drunk text on, I'll regret it in the mornin'  
But tonight I don't give a I don't give a, I don't give a_

There was that look on the doctor's face again—the one that the consulting detective could only label as being self-satisfied. John Watson was indeed a sexy man in uniform, and he knew it. The women in the club also seemed to know this, too. They cat-called to him as he teasingly worked the zipper of his jacket further and further down as he tantalizingly swayed on the runway.

_There's a place downtown where the freaks all come around.  
It's a hole in the wall. It's a dirty free for all.  
And they turn me on when they Take It Off.  
When they Take It Off. Everybody Take It Off._

All the female patrons shouted 'take it off' along with the song as it blared over the speakers. With what could only be described as an evil grin, John spun and presented the audience with a view of his derrière. And suddenly the jacket was off, revealing that toned and tanned expanse of back. Sherlock's fingers itched to learn and map out that wonderfully smooth looking dermis…

John took off his beret and tossed it haphazardly out into the crowd. The women seated in that general area squealed in delight and scrambled to grab it up for themselves. And, God! Look at that chest! Pecs and shoulders so chiseled that even his bullet scar looked hot—it only served to add to the whole presentation, like it was there on purpose just for the show.

That led one to next contemplate the six-pack the good doctor sported. Sherlock slowly exhaled as he eyes trailed down those washboard abs…he might actually be convinced to do laundry if he could scrub the linens on John's stomach. Naturally, that led the consulting detective to allow his gaze to drop lower still. He had to bite his lip to keep from moaning, those fatigue trousers were hanging dangerously low on a pair of well defined hips—hips that were gyrating in the most sinful way possible as John skillfully danced in hip-hop style.

_There's a place I know if you're looking for a show.  
Where they go hardcore and there's glitter on the floor.  
And they turn me on when they Take It Off.  
When they Take It Off. Everybody Take It Off._

Once again the ladies chanted in rhythm with the song for John to remove more of his clothing. The doctor dipped his hands into the waistband of his trousers and teased the crowd, revealing a tiny glimpse of what was below, but not fully removing them. Not enough. Not nearly enough…

Then, without further adieu, John reached down and ripped the pants off amidst the screams of delight and wolf-whistles sounding throughout the club as that sequined g-string finally made an appearance.

_Lose your mind. Lose it now.  
Lose your clothes in the crowd.  
We're delirious. Tear it down  
'Til the sun comes back around_.

Greg glanced over at Mycroft. The elder Holmes cleared his throat as he loosened the knot of his tie. "I can certainly see the..ah…appeal…the good doctor has…"

"Yes," the DI responded dryly. "And how very patriotic, too."

Sherlock remained uncharacteristically silent. He shouldn't have been this affected. He had seen this before, after all, when they had bought the costume. This added a whole new element to the visual. His blogger glistened ever so slightly under the lights here. He felt a slow burn start in the pit of his stomach.

_N-now we're getting so smashed. Knocking over trash cans.  
Eurbody breakin' bottles it's a filthy hot mess.  
Gonna get faded. I'm not the designated driver so  
I don't give a, I don't give a, I don't give a_

John made sure to give the audience a good long view of that perfectly round, tight arse of his. The women went _wild_ as he flexed and jived for them.

When he was positive that the ladies had been worked into a sufficient frenzy, John slid—yes, slid (in the most sexual way possible) off the stage and onto the main floor of the club. He danced over to the lady who was still in possession of his previously discarded beret. She was awarded an impromptu (or not) lap dance for her trouble.

Sherlock was definitely not jealous when that charlatan's hand groped his John's backside. He grit his teeth in barely contained fury. He was so absorbed in the show that he failed to notice Lestrade and his brother eyeing him curiously. But they didn't matter. Nothing mattered except for the doctor and his flawlessly fit body. He vaguely recalled that they were all here for another purpose, but his brain had decided that it was on hiatus at the moment.

_There's a place downtown, where the freaks all come around.  
It's a hole in the wall. It's a dirty free for all.  
And they turn me on, when they Take It Off.  
When they Take It Off. Everybody Take It Off._

The ladies properly seduced, John swiveled his hips as he made his way over to the table where his mates were sitting. _Time for the _real_ show_, he thought with an impish grin.

Sherlock's eyes widened comically as John climbed into his lap. Instinctively, the detective reached out and grabbed a hold of those hips. The doctor rocked his groin against his best friend's as the cheering and the wolf-whistles increased tenfold.

_There's a place I know if you're looking for a show.  
Where they go hardcore and there's glitter on the floor.  
And they turn me on, when they Take It Off.  
When they Take It Off. Everybody Take It Off._

With a saucy wink, John made a move that looked like he was dropping to his knees between Sherlock's legs. The next thing the genius knew, he was being hoisted into the air, chair and all. There were shouts of approval from all around as John tipped Sherlock forward, grabbed the detectives arse, and dropped the chair—all within a matter of seconds.

The genius slid his arms around John's neck, holding on for dear life as he was transported across the club floor. Without warning, he suddenly on his back, laying on the runway with John's body hovering over his. _Oh, God!_ Sherlock groaned internally. _This was so not fair!_ This whole masculine display of strength had turned him on horribly.

_Oh, oh, oh! EVERYBODY TAKE IT OFF!  
Oh, Oh, Oh! EVERYBODY TAKE IT OFF!  
Right now! TAKE IT OFF! Right now! TAKE IT OFF! Right now! TAKE IT OFF!_

John writhed above him in what must have looked extremely lewd to the audience. He dipped his head down and nipped at Sherlock's earlobe, giving the crowd a show.

The detective turned his face away from the club floor, his cheeks flushed. "What are you doing, John?"

"I thought it was obvious," the doctor whispered into his ear huskily.

_There's a place downtown, where the freaks all come around.  
It's a hole in the wall. It's a dirty free for all.  
And they turn me on when they Take It Off.  
When they Take It Off. Everybody Take It Off._

John chuckled and continued, "I thought we were catching a killer…"

The doctor yet again surprised Sherlock when he sat back on his haunches and pulled the detective up into his lap. Then the captain was on his feet, holding his flat mate to him.

"By seducing me?" Sherlock demanded in a hiss, his face only centimeters away from his blogger's.

"It's only seduction if it's working," John whispered back. "Besides, I'm proving a point."

Before the genius could reply, the doctor crushed their lips together.

_There's a place I know if you're looking for a show.  
Where they go hardcore and there's glitter on the floor.  
And they turn me on, when they Take It Off.  
When they Take It Off. Everybody Take It Off._

The house went wild. Kissing a client was considered taboo in the stripping world, but then this wasn't necessarily an ordinary situation. It never was when Sherlock was involved.

When they finally broke a part, the detective grasped for anything he could to understand his best friend's actions. "What point are you trying to prove?"

John gave him that adorable lop-sided smile he reserved only for Sherlock. "It's not all 'just transport'. You have feelings, Sherlock."

With that, the doctor set Sherlock back down on his feet and gave a proper flourished bow to his fans before he swept off through the curtain at the back of the stage.

Mind reeling, the consulting detective crept back to his seat, trying to ignore the cat calls he was receiving from the other patrons.

As he slid back into his chair, he purposely avoided meeting his brother's or the DI's eyes, aware that both men were observing him with keen interest.

Greg had a positively evil grin on his face. "Not planned then?" he questioned.

Sherlock blush deepened as he scanned the crowd from their vantage point. "Ah, no. Said—John said that he wanted my reaction to be spontaneous…"

Mycroft chuckled at his brother's discomfort, declaring, "Well, I commend the good doctor because it appears he has succeeded in his endeavors."

"Yes, well," Sherlock stammered and cleared his throat, determined to ignore his companions' taunting.

His eyes swept the audience again. _There! Oh, how could I have missed this?!_ Near the left of the stage, a tall red-headed woman rose from her table and slipped off towards the hallway that led to the backstage dressing room.

"Lestrade! There!" Sherlock hissed and motioned towards the direction the woman had gone.

"Shit!" the DI exclaimed as he jumped up and followed the consulting detective across the club floor. The manager noticed their movement and was hot on their heels as they ran down the short corridor.

The sound of a struggle and shouting met their ears as they flung open the dressing room door. John was trying unsuccessfully to throw off the ginger, whom had a bright yellow g-string wrapped around his neck, strangling him from behind just like her other victims.

When Sherlock and Lestrade burst into the room, she looked up at them with a panicked expression on her face. She brought her foot up to the small of John's back and gave one mighty kick and shoved him directly into their advancing path. She spun around and knocked over a clothing rack to further thwart their progression before she dashed out the back door. Greg and the consulting detective followed in hot pursuit.

* * *

Mycroft, during this whole ordeal, remained sitting calmly at the table. He did however phone in for his DI's team to provide backup. He was pleased when they responded so quickly to his summons.

Mike had made sure that John was okay before he entrusted the doctor's care to another dancer. He made a reappearance on the stage and informed the audience that there was a situation that the was being handled and apologized for the interruption of the performance. A murmur of excitement ran through the crowd as they speculated what was happening behind the scenes.

* * *

"Which way did she go?" Lestrade asked, slightly out of breath.

Sherlock pointed off to the right in response and continued the chase. It seemed the suspect was leading them around in circles, as they had just doubled back and ran up an alley they had already been down.

"Wha-?! Is she really heading back to the club?!" huffed Greg.

"Looks that way," the genius answered as they hopped over the chain linked fence where their second victim had been discovered.

The DI made to go back through the back entrance they had used upon leaving.

"No!" Sherlock shouted. "Side door! Won't expect it!"

Lestrade took his suggestion and they burst back into the side corridor. They ripped off the curtain as they stumbled out onto the club floor. There was another ripple of excitement through the audience when they reentered.

Greg heaved an internal sigh of relief when he noticed Donovan near the right hand side of the stage. There were other plain-clothed officers stationed around the building now as well. The killer would not escape this time. They had her.

There was a great deal of commotion from backstage and then John suddenly re-emerged onto the dais, followed closely by the ginger murderer. Just as Sherlock vaulted onto the runway, the doctor grabbed a hold of the left side pole and twirled around it, executing a spectacular spin kick which landed squarely in the center of the woman's chest, knocking her to ground.

Sally, who was closer, restrained the suspect as another officer hopped up onto the stage and handcuffed the woman.

The crowd was wild as they watched the spectacle.

Sherlock met John's gaze with wide eyes. "Brilliant, as usual, John!" he gasped, trying to catch his breath.

The doctor just shrugged in a self-depreciating manner and grinned. _ All in a day's work, really_.

* * *

It was some time late and John and the other dancers had long since redressed in proper attire. The club had been shut down, patron statements taken, and murderer handcuffed and questioned. In all, it had been a productive day, the doctor thought.

Lestrade saved John's statement for last. When he was done with the official line of inquiry, he cleared his throat and cut right to the chase. John was his mate, after all, and they knew and respected each other well enough to just tell one another how things were without worrying about being offensive.

"You have a certain…appeal…John. And apparently it's not limited to one Holmes," Greg told him.

John stared dumbly at the DI, a look of horror on his face when the meaning of Lestrade's words finally sank in.

"But don't worry," Greg added hastily, waving both hands in front of him as if to clear the air. "Mycroft was just surprised by how…umm…fit…you are."

Lestrade trailed off and glanced away, his face burning a bright red. The doctor couldn't help but laugh. He knew he was 'mildly attractive', as Sherlock had been so kind to point out earlier in the case. It was flattering that his friends thought so. It was a little unnerving as well, though.

"Its okay, Greg. I'm sorry if this whole thing has made you uncomfortable," John apologized.

"No—there's no need for you to feel sorry, John. It's all thanks to you that we've finally caught the murderer. Besides, it's not the first time one or both of you have had to go undercover and do something a little more unconventional for a case," the DI replied. "I want you to know that I really appreciate your hard work and dedication—you really go above and beyond, so thanks."

John offered his friend a smile. "Any time."

Then, with a cheeky smirk, Lestrade commented, "With moves like that, it's no wonder your army mates called you 'Three Continents Watson'!"

The doctor turned a lovely shade of pink and groaned in response. The DI was probably right, though John was sincerely regretting sharing that story with him. Alcohol in copious amounts tended to leave him rather loose-lipped. He knew that the night he had divulged that information to Greg, he had been rather inebriated. That was something he would have to keep an eye on in the future, lest more embarrassing army stories were told.

Greg watched something over his friend's shoulder and suddenly his posture changed. "Well, then. I'll be off. Try to enjoy the rest of your night there, mate." With an odd grin on his face, Lestrade sauntered off. _Probably to find Mycroft_, John thought.

"We have to stop getting ourselves into these situations, John. People will talk," Sherlock declared with a hint of amusement laced through his voice.

The doctor turned to regard his flat mate. He shook his head and laughed. "They do little else, Sherlock, as I seem to recall you telling me once."

"Quite correct, John," the genius acknowledged with a nod. He stepped impossibly close to his blogger and whispered, "Let's give them something to talk about."

With that, he leaned down and captured John's lips with this own.

The yarders still in attendance all cheered wildly.

"Cheers!"

"Oh thank God! _Finally_!"

"It's about fucking time, mates!"

* * *

Greg crossed his arms and leaned further back against the plush leather seat, absolutely _not_ pissed that his—whatever they were to each other—found his friend attractive.

Mycroft sensed the waves of hostility rolling off the other man. He fiddled nervously with his recently reacquired brolly. "Gregory…I just…ah…" he glanced out the window and cleared his throat, before trying again.

"Greg—I hope you know that while the good doctor has a certain…appeal…I have absolutely no interest in him that way. Now you—on the other hand, I do have that kind of interest in. You know that I adore you. And while that was entertaining, it would have been more so if it were you—I wouldn't mind if you…ah…wanted to…try…that. In private, that is."

Lestrade whipped his head around to stare at the elder Holmes. "Are you saying that you want me to strip for you, Myc?"

Mycroft blushed a bright shade of pink as he answered, "I wouldn't be opposed to the idea…"

Greg grinned from ear to ear. "And here I thought you were about to jump ship and hop on the John Watson bandwagon."

The elder Holmes rolled his eyes and then reached out to take his companion's hand. "Hardly. While I find short army doctors quite amusing at times, I prefer the rugged DI type myself."

"I was hoping you'd say that," Greg admitted and slid closer to his lover.

Mycroft's answering smile reached his eyes. "You needn't worry, Gregory. I came to the conclusion long ago that you were the only man for me."

The DI laughed as he placed his hand on the back of the politician's neck, pulling him closer. "Kiss me, you posh git."

And Mycroft did just that.

* * *

**Woo! Is anyone else hot in here, or is it just me? Damn, I'd like to break me off a piece of that lovely little ass of John's. Mmm. That's right, Baby, you take that off!**

**And FINALLY the hook up! Smut to follow! (The plot monkeys are pervs and like that part the best)**


	11. Behind Closed Doors

**My sincerest thanks to everyone who had favorited, reviewed, and followed this story! You are all so wonderful and I am grateful for your support. **

**My never-ending gratitude also goes out to the ingenious Captain Evil, who has been the key to my inspiration. Kisses to you, my darling!**

**So here is the conclusion to our boys' wild adventure: motive and smut! I hope this meets your satisfaction :D**

* * *

Sherlock nipped at his blogger's bottom lip teasingly. He was aware of no less than a dozen people staring at them, but for once the genius didn't give a damn. All that mattered was the short firecracker in his arms.

"I think we should discuss a few things," the doctor stated with a gleam in his indigo eyes.

"Mmm…and what would that be?" the detective roguishly asked as he pulled his best friend even closer.

"What I need to say to you must wait until we're behind closed doors," John whispered in his ear.

Sherlock groaned and spun around, dashing to the edge of the road. The doctor had never seen his flat mate move that quickly to hail a cab. _My, my! Aren't we a little eager?_

It seemed to be one of Sherlock's many talents, hailing cabs. Even at this late hour, one had answered his summons within minutes. Being uncharacteristically gentlemanly, he held the door open for John to climb in first. His motives weren't entirely pure as he was awarded an incredible view of John's arse. It took an immense amount of restraint on his part not to reach out and grab it. _Later, later_…_as soon as we're home…_

When Sherlock folded himself into the car, he took the seat next to his flat mate and sat a little closer than was strictly necessary. In a bold move, he laid his hand on John's thigh and slid it slowly upward.

That move earned him a laugh, but the doctor reached down and took those long pale digits in his hand and interlaced their fingers.

"None of that here—you have to wait," John whispered. Then a little louder, "Tell me about her motives on this one. You talked to her, yes?"

Sherlock smirked, knowing he was about to get what he wanted in very short order. _Yes, the motive was just the distraction they both needed at the moment_. "So it turns out you were right about the jaded lover. Dara St. Clair is her name. She met Alex Kelly several years ago at Midnight Equilibrium. It was 'love at first sight' she claims."

The doctor snorted. "Yeah—more like '_lust_ at first sight', I'm sure."

"Rightly so, John," the consulting detective concurred. "She's the heiress to a billion-dollar American oil tycoon. She's the one who set up the trust fund. All was going well until Alex started to grow distant about six months back."

"I'm guessing that's when he met Bryan Harper?" John deduced.

"Well done! Spot on!" Sherlock squeezed his hand in approval. "She rarely visited him at the club because she 'trusted him whole-heartedly'. Never thought he would cheat on her. He stopped calling her after his shows and she grew suspicious. So one night she turns up incognito and sees for herself that her kept lover is fawning over another man. She easily discovered who Harper was through another patron and tracked down his place of employment afterwards."

The doctor thought about that for a minute before speaking up. "So—she calls Harper at work and threatens him to make him leave Kelly alone but he informs her that _they_ were madly in love…Dara? Is that what you said her name was? She just…snaps and closes out the trust fund and murders the supposed love of her life?"

"Yes, I suppose that's correct. Her philosophy was if she couldn't have him, no one could," the genius stated.

"And what happened? She confronted Alex?"

"Ms. St. Clair was in the audience again the night she killed Alex Kelly. She said she waited outside for him, and somehow she was able to get back in before he locked up for the night—she actually hid backstage and watched Kelly and Harper was they had sex. She waited for Harper to leave and then snuck up on Kelly with a spare g-string," Sherlock explained.

"And Bryan Harper was just a fit of jealous rage?"

"Yes—I'm positive she is suffering from a mental disorder caused by a nervous breakdown which resulted in her killing spree."

"But what about Eric?"

The consulting detective shrugged. "It was because he clearly exhibited homosexual tendencies and she saw all of the flaws of her former lover projected onto him. She simply saw it as her duty to 'correct a mistake in the world'."

John frowned and stared down at their joined hands for a moment, pondering over the whole affair. "So—what about me then? After all it wasn't until tonight that I purposely—well, you know…exhibited gay behavior."

"Ah, yes…" the genius cleared his throat in what his partner took as embarrassment. "I'm afraid that was an oversight on my part. I assumed we were looking for a male murderer…Dara St. Clair has actually been watching _us_ while we were looking for _her_. She knew who we were and what we were doing. When she saw you in the group numbers last night, she decided that you needed to go as well."

"I can tell you that she nearly succeeded! If you and Greg had been a minute later showing up, she might have actually crushed my windpipe," the doctor enlightened his best friend. "I have to say—she was a lot stronger than she looked!"

Sherlock angled his body towards John's and lifted his free hand to gingerly touch the edges of the purple bruises forming along his blogger's neck.

"I'm sorry," he apologized softly. "I was careless and it put you at unnecessary risk."

"No more than usual," John retorted, the corners of his lips tugging up. "It's my choice."

"What else would you choose to do if given the option?" the detective questioned as he titled his head slightly to the side.

John leaned forward and just as their lips brushed—

"Oi! 221 Baker Street—come on!" the cabbie yelled at them. "My shift ends in five if you don't mind!"

They both looked up and realized that they were indeed sitting out front of their door. John reached into his back pocket for his wallet and handed the driver a couple of bills before he and the consulting detective hastily exited the car.

Not a word was said as Sherlock unlocked the door or as they ascended the seventeen steps up to their flat. Both men shrugged out of their coats before they found themselves standing in the middle of their sitting room staring at one another.

Neither made a move, waiting for their partner to be the first to surrender. Feeling bold, John reached down and pulled the hem of his jumper up and over his head then tossed it aside. He hadn't bothered with his undershirt when he had redressed, so he was left standing there in just his jeans. Jeans that sat low on his hips and first pair of pants he happened pulled out of his bag.

Sherlock's gaze swept over every centimeter of him and lingered on his broad, muscular chest and hem line of those bright red pants peeking out from beneath his jeans. The expression on the detective's face was one filled with such unveiled hunger and lust that John found himself being pulled toward his flat mate without even realizing he had moved.

The doctor reached up and cupped his best friend's face in his hands as he stood on his tip-toes, bringing their lips together for the third time that evening. Sherlock instinctually reached out and grabbed a hold of those tantalizing hips that had driven him mad earlier.

He moaned as John licked at the seam of his mouth, demanding entrance. Sherlock complied and was awarded the caress of his blogger's tongue as it curled around and tangled with his own. They each fought for dominance over the kiss, the passion and the heat rising steadily between them.

And then the doctor tilted his head just right to allow the kiss to deepen all the more. When Sherlock finally won control, John's tongue retreated. His blogger teasingly bit at his upper lip, causing the genius to emit a low growl of frustration before he forced his way into John's mouth. _God—did he taste good! Like the honey he took in his tea_…

John submitted to Sherlock's will and allowed the genius to thoroughly explore his mouth. He never remembered any singular snogging session that had felt this good before. Sure, he had found the act of kissing pleasurable in the past, but this was a whole different level entirely—this was essentially tongue fucking. And it had him incredibly turned on.

The detective would have been content to continue this for the rest of night had he not remembered what John looked like nearly naked and if he wasn't currently lacking enough oxygen to remain upright for very much longer.

They broke apart, panting heavily.

"Did you like what you saw tonight, Sherlock?" John archly asked when he could find his voice again.

"What does this tell you?" Sherlock retorted and grabbed his blogger's left hand, forcing it onto the very prominent bulge in the front of his trousers.

"Oh, God!" the doctor huffed breathlessly. "You're so hard already!"

The detective leaned in, and nipped at John's lower lip. "This is what you do to me. I can't tell you how many times I've masturbated to thoughts of you."

"Wait—" John demanded and pulled back to get a proper look at his best friend. "You think about me while you're having a wank?!"

"Odd question to ask when I've not two minutes prior had my tongue nearly down your throat. But yes, you may as well know that I fantasize about you while I pleasure myself," Sherlock informed in that silky baritone of his.

"I need you in bed, right now. I don't care which one," the doctor demanded.

Without having to be told twice, Sherlock led them into his bedroom. He resolutely shut and locked the door behind them. Then they frantically pushed and pulled at one another's clothing until at last they fell onto the detective's plush mattress in nothing but their pants.

"Red's definitively a good color on you," Sherlock complimented right before he devoured John's mouth again.

The doctor hummed in response as his hands wandered over the smooth breadth of the detective's back. For as lanky as his flat mate appeared in all those finely tailored suits, there was a finely honed expanse of muscle beneath his fingers. Sherlock's toned body was in such acute contrast to the plush, soft women John normally bedded—and he had to say that the difference thrilled him in an inexplicable way. He never really looked at other men that way, but he was secure enough to admit when another bloke was attractive. But as with everything else, there was just _something_ about Sherlock. In this case, it left him hard and panting for more.

John reached down and grabbed one perfectly shaped buttock and squeezed as he thrust his cotton-clad crotch up into Sherlock's. The genius tore his lips away, tossing his curls back and gasping at the sudden friction. _Yes—this was so much better than an act of self-pleasuring! _

He followed his blogger's lead and slowly ground down against him. Sherlock nibbled down the side of John's jaw before gently tugging on the doctor's earlobe. His fingers danced over John's hardened nipples, earned him a wanton moan from his partner.

The genius then licked at the sensitive flesh just below his ear, causing John to shiver in the most delicious way possible. No other lover had ever found so many of his hot spots in such a short amount of time.

"I have to say—that is some reputation you must have. One wonders what it takes to be nicknamed 'Three Continents Watson'," Sherlock murmured, recalling what Lestrade had said earlier.

John gave a throaty laugh and smiled seductively as he angled his head a little to give the detective better access, "Mmm…it would be easier to _show_ you, rather than tell you. Quite more enjoyable too, I believe…"

"God, yes!" his flat mate cried out against his skin. That deep baritone sent an electric pulse straight to his groin.

Without needing further encouragement, John flipped them so that he was now on top of Sherlock. Those perfect icy blue eyes blinked up at him in surprise. Grinning like the cat that finally caught the canary, the doctor slipped one of his calloused hands beneath the waistband Sherlock's pants. With gazes locked onto each other, his blogger wrapped that hand around hot, silky flesh.

The consulting detective bit his lip to keep from shouting out as John expertly stroked his erection, all the while never breaking eye contact. When he was sure that Sherlock was sufficiently hot and bothered, he released his prize and started to work off the genius' pants. When his partner was sufficiently naked, John sat back on his heels and examined his soon-to-be-lover.

Sherlock sighed in relief as his cock was finally released from the confining restrains of his underwear. Though, the longer John sat staring at him, more uncharacteristically self-conscious he began to feel. He knew what a sight he must have made with his flushed skin, spread legs, and erection standing proudly at attention. The image in his mind's eye was a rather lewd one.

"Christ…" John breathed at least. "Sherlock, you have no idea how indecently sexy you look right now…" He eyed the detective's cock like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. It was long and slender, much like the man it belonged to.

The doctor licked his lips and leaned forward to lick the vein at the underside of Sherlock's member. Then he swirled his tongue around the glans before lapping up the salty pre-cum at the slit. When John swallowed him down to the root without warning, the detective cried out and fisted both his hands in his blogger's short blondish-grey hair.

John flicked his gazed up to Sherlock. The genius raised his head and their eyes locked. It was almost too much, seeing his fantasy become reality. Those lush lips stretched around him, sucking him off. This was far better than anything he had imagined. As they continued to watch each other over the expanse of his torso, the genius saw some unnamed emotion ripple across his partner's features. It excited him yet terrified him at the same time and left no doubt about what he wanted to happen next.

"Fuck me, _please_! John!" Sherlock begged, still maintaining eye contact. He was hard and leaking. He needed release. He wanted his doctor to take him apart and put him back together again in the way only he knew how.

His blogger's mouth pulled off him with an obscene sounding pop. John slid back up Sherlock's body and propped himself up on an elbow to gaze down at the younger man.

"Is that what you want, Sherlock?"

"Yes."

Sherlock lifted a hand to John's face and urged him forward until their lips joined again. He could sense the doctor's hesitancy as that skillful tongue slipped into his mouth for a languid kiss. When they finally broke apart several moments later, his blogger rested their foreheads together and took a deep breath.

"You needn't worry, John. I won't break," Sherlock whispered. "I think you might be laboring under a false pretense—I have done this before."

John pulled back to properly look at his flat mate. "You're not a virgin?—I'm sorry. I should know better, I just assumed…"

The corners of the consulting detective's lips quirked up slightly. "No, it's fine. I never gave you reason to believe otherwise."

"When?" the doctor asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

"At university."

"Ah—you experimented."

There was an answering baritone laugh, "You know me so well, John."

The doctor leaned down and peppered Sherlock's lips and jaw line with kisses. "I'd like to know you a little better…"

The genius reached over into his nightstand drawer without looking and fished out a small plastic tube. As he held it up for his blogger to take, he replied, "Then what are you waiting for?"

John took the proffered bottle of lube and assessed Sherlock carefully. "You're sure?"

"I would have said otherwise if I wasn't."

"No—I know—I mean—"

"Oh, you're inquiring as to the positioning…" Sherlock stated as the true meaning of the doctor's question dawned on him.

"Yeah…"

"I prefer to bottom."

John's breath caught at those words. The thought that his normally overbearing flat mate was willing to relinquish control in this area kicked his libido into overdrive. His heartbeat stuttered then took off at a record pace.

Sherlock smirked knowingly. He gripped the back of John's neck and pulled his head down so he could speak directly into his lover's ear.

"Oh—you _like_ the thought of that, don't you?" he purred. "Then let me say it again so that you are well aware of my request…"

He licked at the shell of John's ear teasingly before ordering in a low, husky voice, "I want you to fuck me, John."

The doctor moaned and fumbled to get the cap on the tube of lube open. He managed to slick up his fingers and teased Sherlock's delicate opening with the tip of his index finger until the detective was biting his lower lip and growling in frustration. Then finally, he slid in that first digit. With trained accuracy, found his lover's prostate.

The genius arched off the bed and gasped. He had forgotten how pleasurable prostate stimulation was—and in fact, it was one of the only reasons he had indulged in sex more than once during his time at uni.

John continued his ministrations, thoroughly preparing his body. By the time a third finger was inserted, Sherlock had been reduced to a writhing, incoherent mess.

When those wonderful, talented digits pulled out of him, the detective whined.

"Shh, it's alright love," the doctor murmured and patted one bony hip. "Hands and knees—come on."

It took a moment for those icy blue eyes to register comprehension. Sherlock nodded and complied with the request as John shimmied out of his red pants.

"Condom?" the doctor asked. He was a medical man and therefore was health conscious at all times despite the overwhelming lust currently fogging his brain.

Ebony curls shook back and forth in response. "I'm clean, you're clean—we're fine."

It really shouldn't have surprised him that his flat mate had known about the results of his last test, which he had only received a week and a half ago. John knew that Sherlock wouldn't lie about his results, but not using protection was kind of a big deal. He didn't mind, but what it implied at least to him…

"Yes, we both maybe clean, but going bareback is a whole other level of commitment."

"John," Sherlock chided softly, "I don't intend on ever taking another person into my bed."

Upon hearing those sincere words, the doctor's resolve broke and positioned himself behind the genius. John grabbed onto Sherlock's hips and slowly pushed his way in. The consulting detective concentrated on keeping himself as relaxed as he possibly could. It had been such a long time; he might as well have been a virgin again. That, and despite his small stature, John was rather well endowed.

Soon though, Sherlock began to enjoy himself tremendously. Before long he was pushing back to meet John. He had to hand it to his best friend—the older man definitely knew how to drive him insane.

John had purposely measured his strokes so that he only hit that fantastic pleasure spot one out of five thrusts. Neither wanted this to be over quickly, but Sherlock needed to find release. He was so close yet so far from it all at once. The genius was panting heavily and his arms were going weak from supporting his weight for such a long time.

"Lean up and grab the headboard," John instructed, out of breath. He pulled out briefly to allow them both to shuffle closer to the top of the mattress.

Sherlock was grateful to be able to stretch his back but was eager to continue from where they left off. Being aware that his legs were a bit longer than John's, he spread his knees further apart and sank back down as he felt his blogger resume his previous position behind him.

Sherlock gripped the headboard tightly as John's girth pistoned in and out of him. The hold on his hips was suddenly gone as the doctor slid his hands down the detective's arms to interlace their fingers. He could feel that broad, sturdy chest pressing against his back, slick with their combined sweat. The genius spread his knees apart just a little wider, opening himself up all the more and causing him to sink down further onto his partner's shaft. This shift in position was glorious, allowing his blogger to take him deeper.

"Ah!"

Sherlock threw his head back against John's shoulder and moaned wantonly. How had he ever thought this was not worth his time? If his blogger was his partner, he would be content to never get out of bed.

"God, Sherlock!" the doctor cried out. "Do you have any idea what you do to me?"

"Nngh! No…"

"I've never been so hot for someone! Never felt this good before."

"I'm—one of a—kind," Sherlock panted as he pushed back against his partner, matching John thrust for thrust.

There was a breathy laugh from behind him. "That you are. Thank God!"

"Gonna cum. Oh! _John_!"

The doctor increased his efforts and bit down on the juncture between the genius's neck and shoulder and they reached their climax together.

White hot pleasure the likes of which Sherlock had never known ripped through him in a devastating wake. His brain completely shut down as orgasm-induced endorphins flooded his system.

In the wake of such intense physical release, he slid down his partner's body, boneless and unable to remain upright any longer. John's strong arms encircled his waist and led them back down to the mattress.

The doctor groaned and rolled onto his back, trying to catch his breath. Sherlock was not ready to relinquish their skin on skin contact just yet. He turned over and draped himself over John, nestling his head against his blogger's shoulder. He was immediately embraced so he snuggled closer, feeling contentment for the first time in his life.

John giggled beneath him.

"What's so funny?" the detective murmured.

"Just never thought you'd be the type to cuddle afterwards, is all," John admitted as he buried his face in the silky mess of curls at the crown of Sherlock's head.

"Not good?"

"No, quite the opposite. It's _very_ good."

"Good," Sherlock said again, just for effect. It sent his blogger into another fit of giggles.

They laid there in companionable silence for some time before the genius spoke up again.

"I'm quite a demanding lover. I think you should know that."

He could hear the grin in John's voice when the doctor answered, "That doesn't surprise me in the least. There's nothing low maintenance about you, my dear."

Sherlock shifted a little and groaned as he realized just how stiff and sore his hips were. He was unused to such physical activities.

His blogger reached down and rubbed soothing circles on that protruding hipbone, reading his lover's mind. "Somehow," he added with a mischievous air, "I don't think that will be a problem."

"And John?"

"Hmm?"

"No more of those _females_."

The doctor continued to smile into those silky raven locks as he responded, "In case you haven't noticed, there hasn't been anyone else in quite some time."

Sherlock lifted his head to stare down into those bright indigo blue eyes. He adored John's eyes—not that he would ever admit that aloud, but he did nonetheless. They were bottomless, like the ocean and expressive yet mysterious at the same time. At this moment, they were quite expressive and the detective was positive that he was peering right into the very depth of his partner's soul. He was humbled that another person—in fact, the only person in the world who mattered—could feel so deeply for him. John's eyes told him more than either one of them could really ever say.

In a soft voice barely above a whisper, John confessed, "There's only you."

Despite everything they had just intimately shared, Sherlock blushed and smiled shyly as he adverted his gaze from the intense emotions in those beautiful orbs. The clichéd saying 'getting lost in someone's eyes' suddenly made sense to the genius. But despite this, he was at a loss to verbalize any of his own feelings.

Instead, he buried his face back in the crook of John's neck and replied, "Good."

The doctor gave a tired chuckle and wrapped his arms around his detective once more, holding him close. He understood his partner very well. That one word meant more than libraries full of sentimental, romantic love poems.

"No more stripping, either," Sherlock warned after several quite moments.

"That's a shame…was thinking that I could start offering more _private_ performances…"

"Well, then—by all means, do continue…"


End file.
